


Under the Throne the Snake

by duckbunny



Category: American Revolution RPF, Historical RPF
Genre: Britain Victorious, Canon Era, Dark fic, M/M, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-16 22:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 33,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9293204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckbunny/pseuds/duckbunny
Summary: We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,But no man knoweth the mind of the King.There were fireworks over the Hudson on the day that America died. Washington was dead too, by then, and John Adams, and half the great men of the Revolution. But in New York harbour the British flagship floated whole and proud, with two traitors snug below her decks, to brighten the King's long days.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not nice and everything that happens in it is very bad. "Explicit descriptions of Hamilton and Laurens being tortured for fun" kind of very bad. Everything hurts and nothing is good.
> 
> Which is not to say you shouldn't read it. That part is entirely up to you. I probably would.
> 
> Buckle up.

The problem was the horses. The problem was the cannon. The problem was that nobody expected the British to throw their whole hearts into the fight, not if it meant risking the other colonies. No sane nation would prize the American plantations over the whole Empire. But the British did, and set themselves to making an example of their rebellious cousins.

Officers should have been their first targets. Those were the rules of civilised warfare, as written by the British themselves. But men whispered of a devil in the court of King George, a devil in a golden crown, and the devil cared nothing for rank. Civilised warfare could be had with the French or the Spanish, the ancient dancing partners of sea-cloaked Britannia. But America? Upstart colonials with delusions of nationhood? Their officers were no better than the beasts they rode. Why give honour to stolen titles?

So the British abandoned all pretence of concern and brought to the devil squatting on their flagship, not the men of rank or wealth, but the fair of face. The trim of waist and shapely of limb. Washington dangled rotting from an oak tree while corporals were dragged unwilling before the King.

He liked them fresh. He liked them undamaged. Men with nine fingers were stripped of coat and musket and turned out on their parole. A young major of wealthy birth was treated kindly the whole length of the coast, until in bathing him for the royal inspection they discovered his right foot to be half the size of the other and he was thrown to less particular wolves.

It would have broken a British officer, to be treated that way. It did not break John Laurens. He bit and clawed and fought his captors every mile they dragged him. He tormented every horse they slung him over. He did anything but go quietly. It was nothing short of a miracle they got him to the King intact; but miracles are performed hourly at His Majesty’s command.

Alexander watched him fight, and burned. Alexander fought, but his traitor coward body would surrender rather than be broken. Alexander went limp against his will when the hands on his throat came too tight; John would fight until the light went out of his eyes. Alexander would curl into a ball and wait out the beating, and though he saw John reach out to resist even as the boots came down he could not force himself to do it, not when all hope of victory was gone. He was a craven thing. He wanted to live.

The docks stank, that was how he knew they were there. He’d been blindfold for the last two days and every time he stumbled they hit John and every time John fought they hit _him_ and that happened a lot more often but John always stopped before Alexander could get worse than bruised. Questions of the appropriate torture for the redcoat who dreamt that up had occupied his thoughts in great detail and at considerable length. He tried telling John it was good, that the redcoats could be made to kill them both. They twisted leather into his mouth and he drooled down his chin and listened to John trying to swear through his own gag all morning. He stopped trying to say it. John was clever. He’d heard the first time.

The docks stank. The little boat they were handed down into like packages rocked on the water. John said “Shit” and Alexander’s head rocked forward at the blow.

“Watch your language,” a redcoat said, bowstring-tense. John tried to throw himself out of the boat. Alexander let himself be thrust down into the waterlogged bottom and pressed his face against the back of John’s thigh where they were crowded together. Nobody would admit to them where they were being taken. He thought he probably knew.

They didn’t take the blindfold off for hours, not until John was locked in the brig and Alexander in a too-sumptuous cabin. Not until they had been hoisted up to the ship in a rope sling for certainty that they would contrive to fall from a ladder. Not until they had been poked and prodded into line and Alexander had strained his ears to pick out the voices of the officers. Heard one syrupy aristocrat say, “dear me, how bedraggled,” and the redcoat officer say “the aides from Washington’s command, Your Majesty,” and there had been no time to punish Alexander for John’s transgressions for he flung himself bodily on the King as though bound hands were no impediment to his fury. Alexander hadn’t thought, had shouted “Stop! John, stop!” and though John had not heard him the King had and over the sound of John’s beating he had sounded delighted as a child, “This one. Good boy, isn’t he? Pretty? All in one piece?”

“Bruised, your majesty, with war wounds, but healthy. He fights, but he stopped that when we threatened the other.”

“Tame-able,” the King had said, rolling the word on his tongue like honeycomb. “Domesticated. Open your mouth, little traitor. Now. And then we’ll see about letting your friend live.”

Alexander had trembled, and listened to John panting harsh against the deck, and opened his mouth for the King’s thumb.

 

**

 

The first thing Alexander comes to hate are the hands.

He'd hated the King, of course. But that was a distant, principled hatred, passionless, felt for the unjust powers of the Crown more than the tyrant himself, a hatred such as any revolutionary heart must harbour. Alexander still felt it. If the British did not defer so completely to their king -

But the hands. The crook of a finger when Alexander is to crawl nearer. The softness of the skin, tasting of lamb's wool and the sickly ghosts of roses. The broad palms, and how Alexander curses the malicious god who made them large, with every slap to his stinging face.

He sees no-one else. George – the King – and oh, how he hates that to rebel he must resort to George's titles – does not permit it. Alexander sleeps in a narrow bunk built into the wall of the cabin, his hands shackled to an iron staple, and George does not draw back the curtain that hides him until the servants have finished their morning work. Some days Alexander will lie awake for hours, his belly cramping, listening to the King's dressing and breakfast, his discussions with the officers who report to his fine stateroom, before George remembers to let him out to piss.

Today is another kind of day. It's early yet, by the angle of the light that creeps past the edge of his curtain, but George has already dressed and sent his servants away. The two men who wait on him have low, careful voices and Alexander has devoted hours to contemplation of their deaths. They have never spoken to him. Never set their hands on the curtain or unlocked his shackles or said his name and Alexander dreams of knives and the slow seep of their blood.

George's hand, as always, is the first thing he sees. George pulls back the curtain, rich red velvet flowering with colour in the sudden daylight, replacing the stale smell of Alexander's bunk with wig powder, toast, harbour stink. Alexander blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the light as quickly as he can. Once he stumbled into George's leg because he couldn't see and George went away and came back with a bloody knife and made jokes about John's eyes and Alexander was frightened for days that they weren't jokes. It's better to give George no reason to be angry. So Alexander blinks back the sunlight while George pats his leg and says “Did you sleep well, Alex, dear?”

“Yes, thank you, George,” Alexander says quietly. He always says yes. He always expresses proper gratitude. George likes it that way. He wants to flex his fingers, knowing that he'll be out of the shackles soon and able to move his arms, but George might interpret that as impatience; he holds still while George pulls off the blanket. He holds still while George takes the key from its hook and unlocks his shackles. He lets George rub his wrists, brisk and rough, and he lets George tell him his hair needs combing and he doesn't think about how much he hates George's hands.

Alexander lowers himself to the floor, knees hitting the patterned rug with barely a sound. He has become practiced at silence. He waits on his knees, his head deferentially bowed, while George seats himself at the little table and beckons, a single finger crooking. Alexander crawls to him. The breakfast tray is on the table, a little stack of toast, a steaming cup. Perhaps he will be fed this morning. He hardly dares to hope – hope means you can look disappointed and _I don't like it when you sulk, dear Alex_ , and George's broad hand coming down – but he crawls close anyway and settles back on his heels at George's side.

There's no knife on the table, he knows. There will be a teaspoon. There will be a china plate under the toast, and a saucer, and if he smashed those they might have sharp edges and before he could kill either one of them the guard outside would come in and stop him and they would make him watch as they tortured John. There are blue stones in the buckles of George's shoes. Alexander watches the light glinting off them and puts his hands behind his back. George's fingers card through his tangled hair, tugging his head back, and Alexander obeys the silent command. He watches George eat the first piece of toast. Frustration is boiling up in his chest, ugly and bitter, making his tongue itch to ask George what the point of this is, to demand to know what he wants, to say he won't stay here if he isn't going to be fed, and Alexander curls his fingers around his wrist and digs in his nails to keep himself silent. He presses them in one at a time, forcing himself to remember what will happen if he doesn't obey. It's just a meal. It's just a posture. Alexander can hold a fucking pose in exchange for both their lives.

George bites the corner off the second piece of toast. He chews it delicately, swallows, and glances down at Alexander. “Are you hungry, Alex dear?”

“Yes, George,” Alexander says, and if his tone is a little sharp it apparently passes muster, because George tears a piece off the toast he's started and lowers his hand, offering it to Alexander.

Alexander tightens his grip around his wrist and takes the morsel in his mouth. His tongue brushes against George's finger. He pretends it didn't happen, concentrates on chewing slowly – _table manners, Alex, dear_ – and George smiles at him and feeds him another bite.

He gets almost a whole slice of toast, and half a cup of cooling, over-brewed tea. He doesn't complain when George strokes his hair and pets his cheek but he pretends he doesn't understand the insistent pressure and George doesn't command him aloud so Alexander doesn't have to rest his head against George's thigh. George says “Up” and Alexander rises off his heels, kneels upright, his back straight. He misunderstood that instruction the first time. He stood. George shackled him to his bunk and went away and when he came back he said that John screamed very nicely but they would have to do something about his language. George has a set of combs, silver and mother-of-pearl, and he has servants to brush his own hair but he combs Alexander's himself. He tries to be gentle but he isn't very good at it. Alexander bites his lip trying to hold still. George ties it back and then Alexander has to acknowledge the no-longer-steaming basin of water and let George pull his shirt over his head and bathe him, soft hands gentle on his bare skin. He concentrates on how much he would like to be clean. He doesn't let himself think about the method.

George is in the mood to play with his dolls today. Alexander just has to be obedient. Be pleasing. It can't go on forever.


	2. Chapter 2

The first confirmation Alexander had that John was alive, really alive, was eight days after they were brought aboard the ship. He had heard the sounds of John being beaten, boots and musket butts thudding against flesh, before George had him dragged below decks. Alexander had been kept where he was, blindfold, trembling with fear and fury until some sailor more pragmatic than kind had moved him and made him sit against the railing. John would have thrown himself overboard. Alexander thought about it, and stayed where he was. Survival offered some hope yet.

By the time the blindfold was removed he was chained to the wall in George's state-room, and George kept him cowed with the promise that every moment of resistance would be the worse for John. It was the worse for Alexander, too, in those first few terrible days, before he learned to hold his tongue. He had thought his Majesty could be reasoned with. That he was a civilised, rational man.

He should have paid more heed to the rumours of a demon in a crown.

A week after they were brought aboard, John rushed the unfortunate sailor who came to bring him his ration of biscuit and water. Before then, they had come in pairs, and held him at bayonet-length if they had to open the door to his cage. But this one had been told to empty the piss-bucket while he was there, and wanted to get the job done and go up for his dinner, and so he trusted in his own abilities and didn't wait.

He was correct. John, unarmed, didn't get past him.

Alexander didn't find out until morning. He woke at the usual time, when George's servants came in to prepare him for the day, and lay in his little velvet-dark coffin while the captain reported the escape attempt in tones of boredom, as if unsure why this prisoner should be of more interest to the King than any other. Alexander's heart had thudded painfully in his chest, knowing that John was alive, knowing that he had tried while Alexander, the coward, was living in the King's own room and done nothing to kill him or escape himself. He had not needed to ask why his hands were re-shackled behind him when he was allowed to get up. He had thought they were going to John's hanging.

Alexander was still on his knees when the door opened. Still waiting with dread twisting icy in his gut to be led out, in George's old shirt and nothing else, to watch John die. So he was not expecting, when the door opened, to see a pair of redcoats dragging a fierce and feral creature between them. He barely sees the soldiers. He can only see John's burning eyes. Alexander can't help it, he says “Laurens,” aloud and George tuts. He should turn, give _his Majesty_ his attention, but his John is here, gagged, filthy, snarlingly _alive_. He can't look away. Bruise blue and swollen in John's hairline, blood crusted in his curls. John stares over his head at George.

The King's voice is syrup-sweet. “John, dear, you really must behave yourself. This mischief is quite unbecoming of a man in your position. It distracts the sailors from their duties. So perhaps a little reminder, hm? Something to think about, when you feel inclined to _kick_?”

It's George's hand merciless in his hair that forces Alexander onto his belly. There is a moment of perfect clarity, a spike of cold along his spine. Not John's execution. It was never going to be that. How stupid of him to expect it. Alexander's traitor body goes rigid with fear though his will screams for it to fight, and George's knife sinks into his calf.

He can't see John. His face is pressed to the floorboards. His vision catches dizzily onto the dirt ground into the cracks, the edge of a redcoat's boot, scuffed. John is screaming through the gag, _fuck you cocksucking bastard motherfucker I'll shit on your grave fucking coward fucking die_ , and George says mildly, “That's enough.” Alexander can't see him, but he feels the knife twist.

Alexander convulses. He's not trying to escape, he's not trying anything. He's going over a waterfall and his body is the barrel. God, Christ, he's been injured before but it's _different_ and he hears himself, feels the howl ripping from his throat. George is speaking over him, “Be quiet, John, there's a good boy. Be quiet. I'm sure dear Alex would like you to. Would you like that, Alex, dear? Would you like John to behave?”

_No_ , Alexander thinks wildly, _kill him kill him please John kill him please_. He forces the words back into animal whimpers. Silence would be better and he can't do it but he doesn't have to speak, if you don't speak you can't give offence, the knife feels like a sawblade in his leg and George pulls it a little way out and then shoves it deeper and Alexander screams.

When he can hear anything over his own noises it's a terrible roaring nothing. Breathing. Nothing but breathing, three sets calm and one ragged around a gag.

“Better,” George says. “Take him back down.”

The soldiers answer but Alexander only hears John, his bare feet against the boards, stumbling, until the door is closed. George hums under his breath. The knife slides out of Alexander, steady in his hand. Blood trickles. Alexander's whimpering still. He doesn't realise George has walked away until he flinches at being touched again.

“Shh. Hush, Alex dear, don't try to move. You'll hurt yourself thrashing about. Just hold still, there's a good fellow. That's it. There we go.” George's voice is too gentle. He speaks as if Alexander were a child, or a dog, too simple to understand why he hurts. His hands lift Alexander's foot and Alexander trembles in expectation but it's bandages, wrapping around his calf, and all the while George tells him “hush, hush, easy there, lie still.” The pain ebbs, edges dulled under the pressure. A deep wound, he thinks, but not a long one. The wrapping will help press the cut closed and slow the bleeding. He wants to wrench his ankle away but it will be better, surely, to let the wound be dressed. Not to fight. Not now. He can't run even if he gets loose – Alexander twists against the shackles and George, absurdly, sighs in indulgence.

“Are they uncomfortable, Alex dear?”

Alexander nods. He has no idea what else to do. The shackles are iron and they dig into his skin and make his shoulders ache. His face is pressed against the wood with his hands locked behind him. Of course it's uncomfortable.

George wraps strong hands around his arms and pulls him up to his knees. He can't bend his left leg much. It splays out behind him, pushing him off balance. George hums again, thoughtful, and takes most of Alexander's weight himself, arms around his chest to drag him back to his bunk. He holds Alexander up while he scrabbles onto the thin mattress. The shackles stay on but George rearranges them, with the key that hangs maddeningly out of reach above the bunk, and lets Alexander lie with his hands in front of him, not bound to the staple above his head.

He lies almost motionless. His leg hurts, a deep tearing pain that makes him afraid for the use of it, and he doesn't want to know if the bleeding has stopped yet. He can't do anything about it but curl a little smaller, his back pressed against the wooden bulkhead, his knee drawn up. He wants to weep. John is alive, really alive, down there in the dark and the wet and he looked mostly whole.

George's chair scrapes across the floor. Alexander watches him without turning his head. George expects absolute attention, but Alexander would be watching him anyway; it's never safe to lose track of where he is or what he's doing. You can no more turn your back on the King than a rabid dog. Alexander longs to pull the curtain across and hide from him, but George has settled his chair right up against Alexander's bunk.

“You did very well, dear Alex,” he says, and his hand reaches for Alexander's face. Alexander flinches from the tap on his cheek. The King's face goes cold.

Alexander shuts his eyes. Bad move. Bad guess, it wasn't a slap, and now he's somehow given offence. “Sorry, your Majes-”

Oh, _fuck_. He opens his eyes again to meet George's stare, contemptuous, like Alexander is a dog who's just pissed on the carpet. George reaches up out of sight and Alexander's stomach clenches in fear before the tawse even touches him. Heavy leather, stiff enough to hold up under its own weight, a quarter-inch thick and eighteen inches long. George taps his cheek again with the leather. He holds his breath. George's voice is clipped. “ _Really._ Well. It's been a difficult morning for you, so I'll make allowances.” The end of the tawse circles up, around Alexander's eye and back to his cheek. “Say it again. Properly.”

Alexander swallows. Lines the words up on his tongue so they can't get muddled. Stupid, stupid, to let his leg distract him. “I'm sorry, George.”

“Hmm.”

He bites his lip. He can't keep his face from twisting up and maybe that's what does it, maybe that's why _George_ isn't satisfied with the hole in his leg to teach him manners, but the tawse comes down hard on Alexander's shoulder and then again on his ribs. It _bites_. Alexander yelps, still surprised by the sudden reality of the pain. His leg screams at him for twitching under the blows. He's tensed up waiting for the next strike when George hangs the tawse up again. The hand comes back to his face.

Alexander holds perfectly still. He's panting, he can't help that, but he doesn't flinch away. George strokes his cheek, tucks his hair behind his ear. He keeps touching, almost combing Alexander's hair, petting him, and Alexander thinks again: dog. Puppy. The King's pet. The touch revolts him, but he knows George and George will keep beating him and stroking him until he's too exhausted to move if that's what it takes to make him compliant.

John. John is alive. Alexander thinks about that, and he doesn't pull away from George's hand, and when George moves on to stroking down his shoulder and side Alexander closes his eyes and accepts it. His leg is throbbing. John is alive. Alexander just has to lie still and John will stay that way. This could be much worse.


	3. Chapter 3

On the sixteenth day after coming aboard – Alexander refuses to lose count – George puts him on a leash.

The collar is the worst part. He has to kneel up straight, while his calf burns with the strain, and lift his chin. Has to stare at George's lacy cravat while George tells him, eager as a child, that they're going on a little adventure, won't that be fun? The collar is a plain strip of leather, stiff and a little ragged at the edges, as if made in a hurry. Alexander instantly hates it. Hates the shape of it, the leather smell, the shine, with a passion he usually reserves for George's hands. He clenches his hands behind his back but even so when George leans down to put it on him he feels a surging temptation to _bite_ . The tawse is hanging from the back of the chair, waiting ready for Alexander to resist. George hasn't used it in days but he got it ready for this and Alexander tries to disappoint him, tries to hold still and let himself be _collared_ like a _dog_ , but he leans away from George's reaching hands and his arms come up to protect himself and he blurts out, “No,” at the first attempt.

The tawse comes down hard enough to bruise black. The collar goes on him anyway.

It's too tight around his throat, and the rope tied on for a leash makes it worse. Every time George tugs on it Alexander feels he's choking. George tosses a pair of breeches at his feet and sits, the leash in his hand, to watch Alexander struggle into them without standing up. He has to lie on his back and arch his hips off the floor to get the breeches over them. It's a trick he perfected on campaign, dressing in low-roofed tents. Doing it while George watches is enough to make him red with embarrassment.

So he's already blushing, when George opens the door and he finds himself crawling onto the open deck.

For a moment, he's entirely disoriented. He knew where he was, inside the four walls of George's cabin, ought to know where he is now but he's never seen this ship and he goes up on his knees, trying to understand the layout. George tugs sharply on the leash to make him follow. His knees protest at the hard wood of the deck. There's a ripple around him, not words but the little noises of heads turning and men ceasing work to stare, and Alexander's face burns hot. They saw him brought aboard, they must know why he's doing this, and not a one of them has made it stop. He fixes his eyes on the boards in front of him and he crawls. He's composing an essay in his head, _On the Destructive Action of Monarchy in Corrupting the Morals of Innocent Men_ , good wordplay in the title, _innocence_ as both _guiltlessness_ and _ignorance_ , and he keeps it going all the way across the deck and down three ladders, turning on his knees to lower himself onto them and avoid standing. His left leg won't take his weight . He mouths a pun about _uprightness_ to the slats of the ladder and clings on with his hands to hop down one-legged. George pats him on the head when he reaches the bottom.

“Good boy. Not far now. Dear John isn't quite so well-behaved as we might like so he has to stay down here until he shows some manners. But perhaps you can set him a good example, hmm? Goodness, it is dark down here. I suppose he must be used to it by now. Come along. Come along, Alex, dear, this way.” George tugs on the leash harder than necessary and Alexander almost chokes on it, the collar digging into his throat, under his chin. His fingers curl even as he crawls.

It's dark down here, in the damp bowels of the ship. George's cabin is bright with sunshine, might even be a pleasant room if it weren't a prison. But the smell here is of seawater and human suffering, and Alexander's imagination shows him the breaking of the waves above their heads, the weight of water pressing in on every side. If the timbers cracked they would be swallowed whole. Cold ocean rushing in to take them to an unquiet grave. The thought is a knot in his throat, under the strangling collar.

John's cell is behind a barred door. There are metal bars running from floor to the low ceiling and behind them are four partitioned stalls, bare and comfortless. John is the only prisoner here and even so he's chained to the wall. The metal rattles when he stands. His eyes burn. “You sick bastard,” he says, and George giggles.

“Now then, John dear, I'm being nice.” He drops the end of the leash over a hook and pats Alexander on the head. “You be good, now, and I'll come back for you in a bit. Enjoy yourselves. Play nicely.”

He shuts the door, he actually leaves them alone and shuts the door. John glares after him. He's filthy and in the dim lantern light Alexander can't tell how much of that dirt is really bruises. He's lost his shirt. There are cuts on his chest, long shallow scratches along the lines of his bones. Alexander wants to kiss them. He crawls forward, forgetting for a moment the collar around his throat. The leash brings him up short.

“Take that thing off,” John says.

Alexander touches it. The leather is sticky under sweat-damp fingers. “I can't.”

“Bastard. I can see the rope, it's just tied on. You can get that part off, at least.” John watches him, on the floor, and his eyes narrow. “What are you waiting for, Ham? Get up. Take it off.”

“He'll catch us,” Alexander says, but he strains forward against the leash all the same. “Are you hurt?”

“Take it off,” John says again. He yanks on his own chains. “Take it off. Get up, get over here, come on. What the fuck is wrong with you? What the fuck? Have you turned traitor? Are you on his side now, is that it, are you _happy_ like he always tells me you are? Do you-”

“Shut up, Jack.” Alexander digs his fingers into the rope, but the knot is behind his neck and he can't figure out how to loosen it, and then his leg's trembling underneath him but he's on his feet. Fuck the collar. He fumbles the rope off the hook and then he's stumbling forward and his hands are on the bars of John's cell. “Are you hurt, have they hurt -”

“Of course they've hurt me,” John says, fury bubbling under his exasperation. “Same as they have you, unless I imagined that knife in your leg.”

“But you're whole.” Alexander grips the cold bars, wet against his skin. “What do we do, Jack? What the fuck do we do?”

“Stop thinking about it and kill him,” John says, and his eyes are golden as a cat's in the dim lamplight.

When the door creaks open behind him Alexander is leaning on the bars with his hand stretched forward, fingers brushing against John's. If it weren't for the chains – no time to lament. John nods at him, just once.

“Naughty boy,” George purrs. Alexander doesn't move, doesn't look round. He just holds his breath and waits for the vicious tug on the collar that means _his Majesty_ is within arm's reach, and flings himself around.

George is bigger than him, and not weakened by hunger or confinement, but his only weapon is his dress sword and he doesn't have room to draw it, not with Alexander grappling inside his reach. He falls over and Alexander drops on top of him as heavily as he can, before the rope can be pulled tight. He needs that slack in it. He needs it so he can throw a loop around George's soft pale throat and heave and heave, George's nails clawing at his arms and the hilt of the sword jabbing him in the ribs and George is going red, fear flickering in his eyes, die you bastard die die _die_ and Alexander is still wearing the collar. He can't brace himself against the sudden yank on his neck. George rolls them both and puts his knee in Alexander's crotch. Alexander's hands slip on the rope. George slams his head against the timbers, and again, and Alexander's strength gives out. There's wet on the back of his head. He's not sure if it's blood or just the damp filth of this dark place. George has the rope again. He's lost.

** 

There is a hook in the ceiling of George's cabin, sunk deep into the timber. Alexander has noticed it before, during endless hours of mapping the room with his eyes, searching for a way to change things. Now he's thinking very urgently about how to pull it free of the wood. The shackles are carving grooves into his bones. He can't stay up on tiptoe long enough to take the weight off his wrists, not with the damage to his left leg, and his arms are screaming.

George isn't here. Alexander works the chain of his shackles back and forth against the hook. It doesn't yield even a fraction, but in time, surely he could twist it free. In time. If George is gone for long enough.

What Alexander wants most in the world is for George to come back quickly.

The tawse is still hanging in its place above Alexander's bunk. He almost feels fond of it. The whip – The whip is worse. George is belowdecks with the whip. The thought fires up a buzzing panic in his head. He has to work the hook out, has to get loose, has to get down the ladders and rescue Jack, can't get past the sailors but he can work that out later get loose first -

_Breathe. Breathe, Alexander, you do him no good if you faint._ He works the chain back and forth on the hook. The shackles cut fire into his wrists.

The door doesn't creak behind him when George enters. It's too well maintained for that, this little floating palace, this room where George rules absolute. There's only the tap of his shoes on the boards, and the flurry of sound from outside, before the door swings shut.

George, stepping in front of him, is flushed. His eyes are bright, sparkling with hunger recently stoked. Alexander focuses on the brilliant white of his cravat. He doesn't look up until George sets a single finger under his chin, to make Alexander meet his eyes.

“If you had been good, you might have been allowed to see that, hm?” George says, and his mouth is very red. “Wouldn't that have been nice? To come and join in, instead of wait up here on your own?”

Alexander breathes through his nose and doesn't answer.

“No? Nothing? Hm.” George raises the coiled whip, narrow leather gleaming. “Open your mouth.”

He can't, or he won't, and he's not sure of the difference until George takes him delicately by the throat.

“Now then, Alex, dear, one tantrum is quite enough for today. Do as you're told. Open up.”

Alexander tries to take a deep breath. Fails. Opens his mouth, just a little way.

George smiles. “Put out your tongue,” he says, and Alexander trembles in his shackles and lets it creep forward between his parted lips. George raises the whip. It tastes of leather, pressed against his tongue. It tastes of blood.

“Dear John did make a lot of noise,” George breathes, his eyes glittering. “Such terrible language. I really had hoped he'd learned about that. But do you know, he kept talking about you?”

Alexander flinches, pulling away from the whip. George taps him indulgently on the cheek. “You were very naughty today, Alex. You know you must be punished for that, don't you?”

He trembles. He wants to spew obscenities, wants to bargain, wants to protest that he has already been whipped and so has John and surely it must be enough, surely George doesn't mean to keep them like this forever – but his tongue is still absurdly stuck out and he chokes on the words before they can escape. One word like that and George will go back down to John. John's blood on the whip. John screaming, down there in the oozing dark. Alexander takes a single shuddering breath, and whispers, “Yes, George.”

He tries to count in his head, but he loses his grip on the numbers when George whips him on his wounded calf, and then there is nothing to do but hang there and scream.


	4. Chapter 4

Alexander wakes to sunlight. He slept heavily, his exhausted mind finally accepting that the curtain across his bunk means safety from the king's madness. But the curtain is open now, and George is nowhere to be seen – he feels, as he hasn't for weeks, that his eyes were already expecting the light when he opened them, as if he had slept through the sun rising.

George must have drawn the curtain back in the night. Alexander shifts his weight, bracing himself on his elbows to peer around the room. He hardly notices the shackles restricting his movements.

The cabin is empty, littered with signs of hasty dressing. It makes him queasy to realise he slept through it all, the voices of the servants and the clink of George's teacup. He has to be more vigilant. He can't get accustomed to this, and he swallows hard at the thought, the room swaying around him.

No. That's not horror making the floor tilt.

When George finally returns, Alexander is on his knees beside his bunk, his hands still reaching sideways towards the iron staple in the wall. He's dragged the blanket down with him, a pitiful armour draped over his shoulders. Through the wide stern windows, under a blue sky, America is receding.

George's servants come in with him, to unclasp his cloak and lift the crown from the royal brow. He dismisses them almost at once, preferring to come over to Alexander's silent vigil and comb his fingers through Alexander's hair. Alexander thinks, distantly, that to curry favour he ought to lean against George's leg and tilt his head into that touch, but he is too caught up in misery to care.

“Home at last,” George says to him. “Won't that be lovely?”

Alexander watches the shore.

 

He gets seasick.

He managed before, coming to America, because he was so glad to be leaving the islands, and because he could go up on deck whenever he pleased and breathe the fresh air, or write letters, or at the very least find someone to talk to. He was not locked in a single cabin that stank of George's meals and George's perfume and George's body, the well-fed animal scent of him seeping into every fibre of the ship's timbers until Alexander dreams of scrubbing himself raw to be clean of it. Here there is nothing to do but watch his jailer and fight his roiling stomach for control.

George is not seasick, and Alexander is not providing much entertainment – is not inclined to resist him or react to his teasing – and after a long morning of kneeling on his heels beside George's chair, so distracted from his barbed questions that twice he forgets to respond at all, George huffs to himself and puts Alexander back in his bunk. It's nothing but a relief to close his aching eyes. Alexander concentrates on breathing in deep to keep his stomach quiet, too tired to care where George is going when the door swings shut behind him.

He's woken by a blond redcoat, kneeling by the bunk. There's a peeling sunburn on his nose. Alexander yanks his hands away when the redcoat reaches for the chain.

“Don't fight,” the man says quietly, “please. You know it'll be worse. Just – let me take you out. The King's sent for you.”

“I'll kill you,” Alexander hisses, and the redcoat's hands go still on the padlock.

“Yeah. I would too.” He calls over his shoulder, “Green? You'd best keep an eye,” and Alexander's hope of resisting dies before he can begin, for there's no way he could fight two of them armed with nothing but his fists and George's cast-off shirt.

The blond one hesitates long enough to find the worn grey breeches Alexander is allowed for his rare trips out of the cabin. Alexander watches how he's tempted to turn away to let Alexander dress in privacy, and he steps in close when he's dragged the breeches on, forcing the redcoat to meet his eyes. The man has freckles on his cheekbones. Alexander could kill him for that. “I dare you to apologise,” he spits, though his voice shakes.

The redcoat's jaw tightens. His grip is bruising-hard on Alexander's arms, pushing him out of the door.

In the space before the mainmast, a little gathering has assembled, soldiers in their red coats and sailors in blue jackets. They stand stiffly at attention, their hands clasped behind their backs, except for the two redcoats who are holding up a struggling Laurens. He's stripped to the waist, the shallow wounds on his chest showing red and angry in the sunlight. King George turns to watch Alexander being pushed into the circle.

“Ah, good. We've been waiting for you, Alex, dear. Inform Mr Willis that we're ready for him.”

The fury is hot in George's eyes. Laurens must have done something to offend him. Alexander hopes it was enough to get them both killed.

The blond redcoat holding his arms hauls him off-balance, kicks at the back of his knee, until Alexander has to concede he knows what he's being told to do and drop to both knees, his back upright. George has him kneel like this all the time but being made to do it in public still burns. The men watching wear carefully blank expressions. They're in the middle of the ocean, they have weapons, they're watching George and none of them are doing anything to stop him. Alexander ought to be trying to rouse them, but his heart has stuck in his throat at the sight of Laurens. Laurens, still alive, with a fresh bruise at the side of his mouth. He's lost muscle since they were brought aboard, he's pale from confinement, with too many healing scabs. The soldiers holding him back are having to work for it. If he gets his hands on George he will tear out chunks. He barely looks at Alexander on his knees.

Mr Willis, judging by the rag tucked into his belt, is the ship's cook. He brings with him a little copper saucepan, its contents gently steaming, and a china cup. George stops him long enough to dip the cup in and sip from it. He gives a happy little wiggle. “Perfect, Mr Willis. If you would be so kind, I think dear Alex is feeling a little thirsty.”

Willis won't meet Alexander's eyes. He looks over his shoulder at the redcoat instead and says “Hold his head, Peters.” Peters curls his fingers into Alexander's hair, so gently that Alexander wants to laugh at him, for trying not to hurt in the midst of all this, but he has to keep his lips closed against the rim of the cup. The liquid is clear, but the steam tickles his nose. Willis has strong fingers and he drags Alexander's jaw down, until Alexander makes an angry noise and opens his mouth to keep his hair from tearing out. Willis tips the liquid into his mouth.

Seawater. Too hot, it's scalding his throat but he has to drink or drown, and the salt burns in his mouth. His stomach clenches and he can't stop it, the cupful of water is coming up again, onto the scrubbed wood of the deck. Willis says “Ugh,” under his breath, and pulls the rag out of his belt to cover the evidence. Alexander sways in the soldier's grip.

“Try it again, Alex.” George is wild-eyed, breathing hard. Alexander wants to look away from him, to look at Laurens, but the blazing scarlet of George's coat holds his eyes. Behind him, Peters says “Christ” under his breath and lets his arms go. He pitches forward instead, his chest hot against Alexander's back, and wraps him in a bear hug. Alexander lets his head fall back onto him. There's no way he can fight. There's no sense left in trying. He's going to die like this.

He opens his mouth for the steaming cup of seawater and swallows it down, bit by poisonous bit.

When the last dreadful mouthful is gone, and his stomach is a jagged ball of pain, George stalks up close. He leans down to Alexander's level, his hands on his knees, genial and smiling. “Would you like some more, Alex, dear?”

Alexander licks his lips. They taste of blood. “Please, no. Please -”

Snake-fast, George grabs his jaw. “Your friend _bit_ me,” he spits, his mask of civility tearing like wet paper. “ _Me._ We're not done yet.” He digs in his nails, sharp claws curving into Alexander's cheek. “Keep going.”

Laurens is staring at him. His thrashing against the redcoats holding him back has faded down to jerking his arms against their grip, struggles born of instinct more than intent. His face is pale in the sunlight. He used to have a tan, Alexander thinks, as he opens his mouth for the next dose of salt water. He was more beautiful then. It seems a waste to die with this for his last sight of John.

One swallow. Two. It burns down his gullet, like swallowing gravel. He gasps for breath trying to keep it down. Another mouthful. John makes a furious choking noise. The cup is at Alexander's lips again when John speaks.

“I'm sorry.”

“Wait,” George says, silky sweet, and Alexander's head falls forward. He can hardly hear over his own heartbeat. “Yes?”

“I'm sorry. That I bit you.”

Peters pulls Alexander upright, one hand rubbing slow circles on his back as if he were a sick child, and so Alexander is watching as George tangles his fingers in John's curls, as John, eyes blazing, fists clenched, opens his mouth and lets George drive fingers into him. As the smirk crawls back over George's face, and John shakes in rage, and he looks sideways at Alexander in hot accusation.

He doesn't move when George flaps his hand to dismiss them all. Peters – the _redcoat_ – coaxes him into turning around on his knees, little touches to guide him back to George's cabin. Alexander crawls. The pain in his belly is easing a little. He wishes it wouldn't.

George stays away all afternoon. Alexander is chained to his bunk, but one of George's blank-faced servants comes to bring him water. His tongue is cracking like dried mud. His head pounds. He vomits again and can't tell if it's the seawater or the endless rocking of the waves. He swears he can hear John screaming in the dark.

Two days pass. George comes and goes, his face pink with delight. Alexander does not die.


	5. Chapter 5

On the third day, when George comes in from his morning entertainments, Alexander is kneeling by his bunk. The tap of George's shoes is familiar even through the closed door. He has enough warning to straighten his posture. He has to make himself pleasing, if George is to be kept away from John.

George smiles to see him out of bed. One gamble successful: he is not angry that Alexander did something without instructions. Alexander leans into the careless ruffling of his hair. “George,” he says hesitantly, “may – may I ask a question?”

George tips his head back, considering him. “Ask,” he says brightly. It's the tone that says nothing at all about his mood. Alexander picks his words one by one.

“I was only wondering whether John was alright.”

“But of course he is,” George says, still smiling. “You know I take good care of my friends.”

He steps over Alexander, flipping up his coat-tails to settle on his chair. There are spots of old blood on his white silk stockings. For a moment Alexander lets his eyes close, until George says “Come here.”

“I – I'm sorry, George, I can't, the shackles -”

“I said, _come here_.”

George is not stupid. He might forget that Alexander, out of bed, was still chained to it. But having been reminded, he would understand that Alexander could not come to him. This is something different. Alexander attacks the problem with all the speed he can and comes to only one conclusion.

He turns on his knees, letting George see his face again, and how his hands are stretched to his side, towards the anchoring staple. He takes a ragged breath. And he pulls.

The shackles dig into the edges of his hands. Last time he was hung from them he thought his thumbs might tear off. But he won't have to do it for long this time, he's sure he won't. What matters is the effort, and Alexander lowers his head like an ox and puts his whole strength into the struggle to pull himself loose. He's trying to crawl to George, fruitlessly, a futile war with iron and timber. Like a dumb dog who does not know his collar will hold him. Alexander twists his hands against the metal, letting it grind into him, just to look as though he means it. The crinkles around George's eyes deepen.

“I think you're forgetting something, Alex, dear.” Three of his short, neat steps are enough for him to loom over Alexander's head and reach for the key. Alexander waits, the chain still stretched taut. He looks up at George as he unlocks the shackles. His throat is tight with fury, but he stays silent, following at George's heels when he returns to his chair. He waits on his hands and knees for George to seat himself.

“You're very well behaved today, Alex.”

George doesn't sound pleased. He's sly, the smirk creeping into his voice. Alexander has to treat every word he says at face value, has to, or George will seize on the excuse to hurt someone. “Thank you, George.”

“Is there a reason for that? Hm? Have you been lonely?”

Agree. Always agree. Never contradict. “Yes, George.” Always flatter. “I missed you.” Alexander stares at George's knees, not flinching when George pets his head.

“How sweet.” Now he's pleased, a breathy flutter coming into his voice. “I think we might spend some more time together, Alex, dear. John does get so very sulky. But you know, you must be good. Will you be good?”

Alexander forces his eyes to climb the line of buttons on George's chest, until their eyes meet. “I'll do anything you say,” he says quietly.

“Oh,” George says, almost under his breath. His palm is warm, cupping Alexander's cheek. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

George's eyes glitter. He shifts, opening his knees around Alexander. His thumb presses against Alexander's lips. “You remember what happens to boys who bite.”

Alexander nods, a tiny jerking motion, and opens his mouth by force of will. George's thumb slips in, pressing down on his bottom teeth. He smiles. “Be good.”

 

George is not gentle with Alexander's mouth. He is not rough, either. He uses Alexander as straightforwardly as he does his furniture. Alexander learns that he is to keep his hands behind his back, and that George in his throes makes delighted gasping noises, almost surprised, as though startled every time to find that Alexander desired him.

Alexander is not sure whether George understands that he does not.

George visits John every day, now. There's no rhythm to it. He starts every day with Alexander, playing dress-up with his favourite doll. Alexander learns to move and speak and hold himself without regard for the fury blackening his throat. On some mornings George will feed him breakfast. Alexander doesn't dare ask for it, but he never refuses when offered. He never refuses George anything.

But no matter how obedient Alexander makes himself, George will get bored, and leave Alexander chained to his bunk while he visits John in the brig. He tells stories when he comes back, sometimes, lurid details of the expression John makes if you squeeze his throat just so, or the softness of his thighs. Sometimes he tells Alexander how John has misbehaved and then Alexander is beaten, with the tawse for small offences, the whip for great ones. The size of the offence is never clear from the story.

Once George comes back and tells him how John has been beaten for Alexander's sulking that morning, and Alexander knows he did nothing differently today than any other time.

Alexander wakes on a dull morning, his little curtained bunk almost completely dark, from uneasy dreams. The blanket he is allowed is thin and his feet are cold; he kicks around trying to wrap them better and stops the moment he hears George shift in his own, more elegant bed. The rustling is followed by bare feet hitting the floorboards. Aelxander braces himself for the morning.

The light that George lets in when he pulls back the curtain is cold and grey. It's hardly light at all yet, only the thin twilight before sunrise. George never goes back to bed once there's enough light to see by, so Alexander is resigned to losing the half hour of sleep he might have had if he'd lain still. He blinks silently up at the King, ready to be released from his bunk, and notices at the same moment as George when the blanket, thrown back, exposes a hard cock under the loose shirt he was put to sleep in.

Alexander lies perfectly still. He does not even breathe. There is a fragile hope that George will ignore it; but the hope dies under George's hungry stare. There is a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, a real smile, the same delighted surprise Alexander has heard in his voice. He lowers himself to his knees on the rug.

His hand is gentle in Alexander's hair. His lips are gentle on Alexander's mouth.

Alexander is frozen. He can't move. He wants to force George away from him but if he does that he will die, John will die, and George is _kissing him_ and he can't echo it for all of his trying. He feels pinned to the bed by George's body, leaning over him, before ever the hand comes down on his penis.

Whatever George expected, it was not silence. He pulls away from Alexander's lips, beginning to frown. His mouth is still slack with hunger, and he glances between Alexander's face and his cock, as if to be certain he was doing it right, his hand sliding warm and dry over the sensitive skin there. Alexander whispers, “Please, George,” through lips going numb with fear.

“Please what?” George asks, low and heated. Alexander can't bear it. He's going to get them both killed.

“Please don't,” he says, and for a moment George matches him in stillness.

The hand on his throat is choking and infinitely easier to endure. He stares up into George's eyes, into his face twisting with disgust, until George leans down and hisses “Traitor.”

They're going to die.

George lets go when Alexander's ears are roaring with the need for air. He springs up from the floor with a snarl, stalks over to the window. Like John, looking for someone to punch. Alexander gasps for breath.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” George spits over his shoulder. “You are not here for pleasure. You are here to do as I wish. You are nothing but a traitor. You deserve nothing. Rebels – Rebels should be _punished_.”

He flogs Alexander in front of John, this time. He strings Alexander up in the brig, his bare feet slipping on the slime-wet boards, and takes the whip to him while John strains against his chains and his face goes steadily white. John's turn comes while Alexander is too shaky to do anything but lie on the floor and watch, and bite his tongue for fear of what might be worse. John swears under every cut of the lash. Alexander envies him that courage even as he worries.

He thinks he is going mad when George pulls him up by the hair and drags him on his knees into John's cell. He lets the shackles be put on him without complaint, staring at the bloodstain on the iron edge of the left. They are still a little warm from John's skin. John says, “Oh, fuck,” despairing, and then Alexander understands.

He does not have a blanket, down here. He does not have a little narrow bunk in the warmth of the royal cabin, or a window to watch the sea. He does not even have John, only the idea of him, while the real man is trapped alongside the monster.

Alexander curls up on his side, and sleeps without anyone watching him.


	6. Chapter 6

They take turns.

Oh, they don't have any control over it, not really. George may not even realise he's doing it. He just plays with one of them until he gets bored, and then drags them down to the brig and pulls out the other.

He prefers Alexander. That much becomes increasingly obvious, as the weeks pass and the ship inches closer to England. He'll take John for a day or two, but John can't force himself to be sweet – won't force himself – John in the royal cabin means Alexander will be woken from sleep three times a day to be beaten, until George loses interest in breaking his spirit and sends for Alexander again.

He's bruised all the time now. John is hurt less and less, as George learns that it only makes him fight harder. Threats to Alexander are the only thing that keeps him in line and Alexander wishes, wishes he would remember the threat is there, just for a little while, just to let Alexander catch his breath. They can't escape while they're on this ship, they can't kill George, all they can do is survive and if John could just remember that for a day -

But inevitably he doesn't, and Alexander is too exhausted even to needle at Peters when he comes down again with the strap. Peters won't talk to him anyway. None of them will. He'll just go red and shamefaced and get on with the job he's been given.

The food is worse in the brig, but he doesn't have to beg for it.

 

He's back in the cabin when he feels the change, on his knees beside George's chair as he signs and seals papers. Alexander's fingers itch to hold a pen. He keeps dreaming of essays, bent over his writing-desk answering letters for Washington, the ground rocking beneath him like the boat – George looked baffled the only time he asked if he might have pen and paper. Alexander, he said, didn't need to worry his pretty head over anything like that. Affairs of state were not the concern of little rebels – and Alexander had ducked his head and said, “Yes, George, I'm sorry,” to stop him following the thread of _rebels_ any further. George is never satisfied that his pair of traitors has been punished enough. Alexander has bitten his lip bloody holding back rebellious words, the Declaration of Independence thundering in his mind. The war is lost but John is alive and Alexander only has one duty left.

He is daydreaming of letters he might have sent when the rocking of the boat changes underneath him. He shifts his weight a little, trying to puzzle out the difference, before the noise of a cannon has him bolt upright and gripping the edge of George's desk. George squeezes his shoulder. “Down, Alex, dear.”

“Sorry. Sorry, George, I was startled.” Alexander sinks back down to his heels. George's grip eases up a little.

“The cannon? Don't worry, little Alex. It means we've reached Dover.”

 

The smile on George's face as he steps onto the deck is unfeigned. He surveys a crowded harbour with a happy little sigh, for once serene in the knowledge of his position. Every flag is flying under the heavy grey sky. The cliffs stretch away to the north, ghostly pale. The docks are packed with welcoming crowds. There is music, the chatter of voices, caps thrown high into the air.

Alexander hates it.

George leaves them on the boat. It shouldn't be a surprise. They can be packed up with the baggage and brought along behind. He doesn't even say goodbye and Alexander is furious with himself for caring, for the ridiculous worry that they might have been forgotten – being forgotten would be _better_ – but George tells him curtly to stay and walks off to the railing to board the little vessel that will carry him to shore, and Alexander feels as though the deck has fallen away from him. George will expect good behaviour still, but how is he to know what that is, when he can't see George twitching at his errors? How can he keep John safe without knowing the rules?

It takes him a moment to realise that George isn't here. The King isn't here. This is the best chance they've had since they were captured to make a break for it. Alexander licks his lips and stays where he was put, watching the sailors for any sign that John is being fetched up.

He's shivering in the wind long before anything happens. There's been a redcoat standing over him with a bayonet for the last half hour, but he wouldn't try anything anyway. Not until John is here. He sees blond hair through the crowd – Peters coming up out of the main hatch - and braces himself to run. They'll jump over the railing, swim for shore – they'll change their clothes and keep running – find someone who can give them passage to France – there's a war which means there are smugglers, someone must be going over every week, they can escape to Europe – but Peters is alone, no struggling John being dragged up the ladder behind him.

Peters goes down on one knee to talk to Alexander.

“Orders are to send you both to London.”

Alexander takes a deep breath. “And do you think you should?”

Peters looks deeply uncomfortable. He lifts his chin, all determination. “I'm not turning traitor. But see, if we move you together you'll – well. No mischief, that's all. Can't take the risk. So I'm telling you as a kindness, you're both going to London.”

“Oh, very kind,” Alexander cuts him off, furious, “very noble, telling us where we're to be tortured next, I'm sure that will make all the difference when we're strung up in chains – have you ever been choked, Peters, have you had a hand on your throat squeezing the life out of you – have you thanked him when you survived it – a _kindness_ , telling us we're not done -”

Peters claps one hand ungently over Alexander's mouth. Alexander grabs his wrist, tries to pull him off, but Peters has his other hand on the back of Alexander's head and was probably the stronger man before Alexander lost muscle on the voyage; Alexander digs his nails in when he realises the struggle is hopeless. Let the damn redcoat explain the scratches to his wife.

He spends most of the journey gagged.

 

The palace of St James is astonishing. Alexander had some idea of ancient British ceremony – oak beams and gargoyles – but the royal residence is _fashionable_. The furniture is elegant, the rooms are bright, the shutters painted in clean white to offset the painted wallpaper. Alexander works his stiff jaw when the gag comes off and doesn't say a word, occupied with looking around him. He had thought American tastes reflected an independent spirit but here is the model they have copied and for a moment he feels very inferior, unequal to his surroundings.

The feeling dies when he is led, armed guards at his back, through the private apartments, and into a grand bedchamber.

He is washed first, and he needs it, by two no-nonsense servants he's never seen before. The need to fight them bubbles up in his chest, but he knows, knows that compliance is the only chance he has. He will be obedient. He will give George no reason to hurt them, no excuse. George is easily bored and here at home he will find other amusements and John and Alexander will be left alone. So Alexander strips off his worn shirt and breeches on command and lets himself be bathed. The servants are not rougher than they need to be.

They shave him and trim his hair and that is a dreadful temptation, to take the razor off them and do something – anything – he is not bound – but John, John is not safe, John is not free, and Alexander lets his wrists be held behind him and endures. They talk over his head about how he will look best.

George's bed is huge. On the ship he confined Alexander to his own bunk, religiously consistent, but here Alexander is led by his wrists to the broad four-poster. Perhaps they think he'll refuse if he's told in words. Perhaps it's even a kindness, not to give him the dilemma. The servants nudge him up onto the bed and he feels his skin prickle, horribly aware of his nakedness. His hair is still damp against the silk pillows.

He finds his tongue when they are locking new shackles around his wrists, these ones padded with blue velvet but still rigid as iron, the chain laced through with silk ribbon. He says “Why are you doing this?” and hears his voice crack.

The man with the keys looks down at him pityingly. “What's your name?”

Alexander is instantly reminded of Peters, although this man with his thick fingers and close grey curls looks nothing like the redcoat. He licks his lips. Nobody has asked him that except George, not once since they were captured. “Alexander. Alexander Hamilton.”

“Well, Alexander, we don't question his Majesty's desires. If he chooses to have you here, it's no business of ours.”

“But it is your business! You're doing it, you can't pretend -”

Fingers on his lips. Alexander stops instinctively.

“None of that. We all have our jobs to do. But you've had a long journey, you're tired, no doubt. I'll make allowances this time. Stop arguing and we'll say no more about it. You understand?”

Alexander trembles with fury. The silence stretches long before he can force himself to nod.

The grey-haired servant says “Lift your feet,” and doesn't hurry Alexander while he's working out why. He spreads the blankets over him with more care for the finely embroidered coverlet than Alexander lying beneath.

He looks back from the doorway when Alexander says “Thank you. For the blanket,” and nods to him.


	7. Chapter 7

George doesn't come for hours. Alexander lies in his bed, watching the fiery sunset fade along the wall. The bed is softer than anything he has felt for months. Years. Since before the revolution, before he came to America, softer than any bed he's ever slept in. The blankets are wide enough to almost brush the carpet, but lighter than he'd have thought, as if two bodies were expected to warm them.

Two bodies. His body. But Alexander is not the first to lie unwillingly in this bed. These chains were not put here for him. There is wear on the velveted shackles, and a paleness on one side where the light has bleached them. The anchoring plate in the bedframe has been polished and waxed with the rest of it until it almost looks like wood. Alexander wonders what happened to the man who was imprisoned here before and quite suddenly he can't bear it, can't lie still and quiet for the future to find him. He struggles to his knees, trying to brace himself against the yielding mattress to pull at the chain until he sees stars. He can't make his hands fit through the shackles. The iron plate in the bed doesn't budge. The links of the chain are solidly welded shut. Alexander thumps his fists down into the pillow and swallows back tears.

When George finally comes, Alexander is lying curled on his side, beneath the rumpled coverlet. He tenses all over when the door opens behind him. He has not been sleeping. Sleep abandoned him at Dover. George hath murdered sleep.

Roll over, that would be the welcoming gesture. Smile for his King. Alexander lies still instead, waiting to see what George will require of him. There is a noise, like a door closing – like a man sighing in happiness – like a tray set down upon wood. The light flickers and swells, George poking the fire into new life, and feeding it new logs with his own hands. There have been no servants in this chamber since Alexander was left here. George likes to play at simplicity.

He shuffles around the room, lighting candles with a taper. Alexander watches him coming into view, intent on his task. He has undressed partway, his crown and scarlet coat all cast aside, and the conqueror-king is a tired young man, straight-backed, in his shirtsleeves and breeches. He crouches at Alexander's side when the candles are all lit, and his eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“Alex, dear. Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too long,” Alex says dully, raising his eyes to George's face. “They gave me a bath.”

George's smile widens. “You see? I told you. All things are better now we are in England.” He straddles Alexander on the bed, peeling back the covers, hands moving careful-slow to draw out the pleasure. Alexander's legs are twisted but he doesn't dare to straighten them, lest he provoke disaster. George's eyes are ravenous on his skin.

“Everything is better here,” he says softly. “The bed, see, so much softer. The food is better. We will have such fun together, Alex. Smile? Smile for me?”

His thumb presses down on Alexander's lips, for once not demanding entrance. Alexander looks at him, the searching hunger in his face. He wonders if George has ever really known what he wanted. Stiff and reluctant, unconvincingly, Alexander smiles.

George brightens at once. He shifts off Alexander. Stretching out across the bed to retrieve something from the tray, he looks almost childish, almost human. George is reaching for a little wide-mouthed jar but Alexander, following his movements, only sees the food. His stomach spikes with hunger he had been ignoring. He has to force himself to look back at George before his staring can become obvious.

George sees, and laughs at him a little. He drops the jar by Alexander's head and rolls onto his back, stripping off his breeches. There is a smear of something greasy on the lip. It smells of raw wool, and roses.

 

Afterwards, George lies sprawled across the bed, his arm crooked over his eyes. He's breathing heavily, the fine cotton of his shirt sticking to his chest. Alexander is shivering. It's not with cold. He would bury his face in the pillow but he's terrified if he does, he'll feel the weight of George's body lying over him again. So he watches, hardly blinking, until George moves.

“Sit up,” George tells him, and as Alexander is struggling to obey, the soft mattress giving way beneath his movements, George takes a silver key from its hook beside the bed and opens the shackles. Alexander hugs himself. He's breathing too fast. _Sit_ , he remembers, and somehow balances crosslegged, facing George. It hurts.

George says “Hands behind your back,” almost an aside as he's reaching for the abandoned plate, and Alexander obeys without thinking. He's not hungry. He doesn't want anything George could ever give him.

He lifts his chin at the touch of George's fingers. “Look at me, Alex. You're being very good. Such a sweet boy. You must be hungry.”

Alexander has not been fed since yesterday. His belly is cramped tight. But he can't think, can't speak. He only stares at George's pink cheeks. George slaps him.

“Look at me, Alex, dear. Are you hungry?”

“Yes, George.”

“Would you like something to eat?”

“Yes, please, George.” It comes out as a choked whisper, but it makes George smile. He sets the plate down between them on the bed. Alexander can't stop himself from looking at it. Thick buttered bread, and pieces of cold ham, and two little cakes studded with dried currants. Not just tidbits for George's bedtime. A whole meal. Alexander swallows hard.

He can't help himself when George holds the first morsel of bread up to his lips. He hasn't forgotten the rules, can hear the echo of old lessons in his head, _table manners, Alex, dear_ , but he can't force himself to eat slowly. His body takes over. He swallows almost without chewing.

George smirks at him, apparently pleased by his eagerness, and gives him a bit of ham. Not salt pork from a months-old barrel – this is better than anything he's had since the war began. He licks his lips and holds stock-still for George to kiss him, a quick peck before the next bite of food. Alexander has learned to respond to George's kissing but it takes him a moment, every time, to make his body start moving, to override the instinct to freeze.

Piece by piece, George feeds him everything on the plate. Alexander keeps waiting for him to get bored, but all he does it eat one of the cakes himself while he's having Alexander clean his fingers between mouthfuls. The other he manages to resist. Alexander hears himself whimper at the taste of it, the sweetness against his tongue, and he blushes in shame for his weakness. George presses his fingers right to the back of Alexander's throat and smiles.

“Drink,” he says, twisting back toward the tray. “Here.”

Red wine in a clear glass, threatening to spill in George's careless hand. Alexander watches the firelight flickering on its surface. It's obscene, leaning forward to drink from that glass. He can feel George's eyes on him, avid, possessive. George's free hand on the back of Alexander's head, as he tips the glass to make him drink.

By the time he has drained the glass, Alexander is shivering again. Food and wine are a solid warmth in his stomach, making his limbs heavy, but under the strain of holding still his muscles are trembling. George combs his hair with thick fingers and Alexander leans obediently into the touch. Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He won't cry in front of George. Won't shame himself. Won't seem ungrateful.

“It's been a long journey,” George says, still petting him gently. “But we're here now, little Alex. We can have all the pleasures we've denied ourselves.”

Alexander lets himself be pushed to lie down. Lets his hands be lifted to the shackles, the blue velvet over cold iron, lying on the feather pillows. He lies under the blanket, George's warmth burning next to him, George's big hand splayed over his belly, like a lover. Hestares at the ceiling. He won't sleep like this.

Alexander wakes to George's cheerful voice, in the grainy light before dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell at me about these poor boys @duckbunny on tumblr. Also, I have a new thing I'll explain over there. Check it out.
> 
> Updates are going fortnightly for now.


	8. Chapter 8

Alexander never leaves George's side. On the ship, he would be left in the cabin often, while George took his exercise around the deck, or went to visit John. He spent those hours worrying and waiting and only now does he realise he wants them back.

George's servants come in the morning, the same silent men who served him on the ship, and help him dress and arrange his wig and shave. They bring with them clothes for Alexander too. Blue breeches, a white shirt, a waistcoat. Better than the worn cast-offs he had on the ship, but still no coat. No shoes. Like a child. George brushes his hair and puts a new collar on him, this one properly stitched and finished, with a sturdy leather leash.

He has to force himself to crawl out of the dressing room, limb by stubborn limb. Bad enough when it was sailors and a knotted length of rope. At least then it looked as barbarous as it was. At least there was not scarlet thread along the edges of the collar, to make him look like he belonged.

The sailors turned to stare, when he was dragged out on his knees. The servants in George's palace do not blink.

The first day in England is meetings and planning and hours with George's tailor. There are parades to be prepared for, and appearances at Parliament, and new clothes for the new winter season. Alexander listens avidly, trying to glean a sense of George's habits before he can be tripped up by them. If he will only leave Alexander alone – he can't possibly intend to take him to Parliament like this – then perhaps they might be able to escape. Someone amongst the servants must have courage left to help them.

He is fed from George's plate again, kneeling by his chair, as George takes lunch with two young aristocrats who must be particular friends. They smirk at the sight of Alexander and one in particular watches him, a handsome tanned man as tall as Washington is. Was. George calls him “Cavendish” and suggests slyly that they might play cards, soon, and bring the new pets along. Cavendish grins at that, and feeds Alexander a bite of pastry. Alexander glances at George before he takes it and sees the tightness around his eyes, but the curt, “Be polite, Alex, dear,” leaves no room for argument. He lets Cavendish press the tips of his long fingers between his lips, and doesn't bite down.

They talk lightly, of flirtations and horses. George's friends are shameless in their pleasures. The war did not touch them here, except that the coaching inns do not give them enough sugar for their tea. George in turn tells them about the boredom of a sea voyage. Alexander stares at their feet and says nothing, even when George pulls his hair painfully and calls him a traitor. He listens to their gossip and lets their blithe arrogance fuel his hatred.

 

The palace is a maze. Alexander has no chance to learn his way around, not following at George's heels like this, and so he has no idea where they are or where they're going. He expects that George will want to survey his domain, but evidently the palace runs without him just as easily as with; he doesn't inspect it. Alexander watches the trees through the fine glass windows and longs to be out in the wind with them.

He is sinking into a haze of self-pity when the Prime Minister arrives for the afternoon. When George is informed of his arrival, he says “Oh, show him in – No, wait,” and leans down to unbuckle Alexander's collar.

Alexander doesn't move. George pats him on the head, drops collar and leash carelessly under his chair, and says “Now, you may show him in.”

Lord North is a worried man, with a high forehead unconcealed by his powdered wig. He bows to George when he enters, precisely formal and correct, and only after he straightens up does he see Alexander, still kneeling beside George, and he frowns.

“Sit,” George says, “sit. Tell me everything. How has the government fared in our absence?”

Lord North lowers himself into a high-backed chair. He glances down at Alexander, who is acutely aware of his bare legs, faced with this politician in his coat and sash, and says “Should he be listening to this, Sire?”

George looks startled. “Whyever shouldn't he?”

“I had heard that your Majesty had a new – companion – but there seemed to be some doubt regarding his origins. Bluntly, Sire, are you quite certain of his loyalty?”

“Yes, of course I am.” George's hand settles on the back of Alexander's neck protectively. He sounds absurdly, childishly hurt. “Of course. The other one, perhaps – but he won't be giving us any more trouble. Dear Alex is very well-behaved. I would not have him here if I were not sure of him, North.”

Lord North's mouth tightens. “As you say, your Majesty. Nevertheless, perhaps we might speak without -”

“Alex stays.” George grips the back of his neck hard enough to make Alexander wince. The challenge hangs between them until, grudgingly, Lord North bows his head. George puts on his sweetest smile. “Then that's settled. Shall we get to work?”

The moment George moves his hand, caught up in a question about a taxation bill, Alexander crumples, folding down to the polished floor. He lies on his side, curled around the legs of George's chair. The collar with its neat red stitching is inches from his face. He can't focus on it. _He won't be giving us any more trouble_. The conversation passes over his head, but Alexander cannot hear it.

Time passes. The King and his Prime Minister talk. The servants bring tea and clear it away again, stepping over Alexander as though he were inanimate. He feels as though his blood has congealed in his veins, as though his breath were a carrion wind, blown into him and out again, a mere shadow of life. His flesh against the hard floor numbs, and then aches, but he has no strength to move.

Years pass before Lord North rises to bow before his sovereign. His shoes tap on the floor, the door swings shut behind him, and George at last leans back in his chair.

The wood creaks as he stretches. Alexander blinks at the collar, still lying in front of his face. George is moving. His hand comes down, broad fingers fumbling for the leash. Alexander rolls onto his back, baring his belly, his neck, cringing like a dog. He licks his dry lips.

“Is he alive?”

George huffs out a laugh. “Of course he is.”

“George, please. Is he- is John -”

“I told you.” George flicks instantly into anger, a spark set to oil. “Up, Alex, dear. Don't make a fuss.”

“Please,” Alexander whispers.

“Really?” George's cheeks are flushing. “Really, Alex? You would make a liar of me? You would betray me here, in my own palace? You will behave yourself or you will be punished. I do not have time for tantrums, Alex!”

Alexander can hardly crawl, his limbs stiff from lying on the floor. George drags him by the leash anyway. The collar is almost tight enough to choke. He watches his hands passing over the carpet of George's private apartments. _George lies_ , he tells himself, _George lies_ , but he can't decide which was the falsehood. The servants duck out of their way. There is nobody in the world but George.

He crawls trembling into George's bedroom. The bed, again, and the chains, and George's hands, or the endless waiting, and the sickening warmth of skin against his own, but George goes instead to a bureau of dark wood, and opens the side.

Fear drenches Alexander's skin. Not a bureau; that is a box, a coffin, and he will rot inside it. Like the wet blackness of the brig. It will crush him with its weight. He has his hands inside the thing before his body responds to his frantic need to resist; tries to back up but George is behind him, digging his fingers into the soft skin behind his knees, and then into the closed scar from George's knife, still healing beneath the skin. Agony spikes up his leg and Alexander wrenches it away, flinches forwards into the black mouth of the box. George slaps his foot to make him pull it clear of the door.

He lies huddled in the darkness. At first it is absolute and the panic makes his blood roar in his ears, makes him claw at the wood, his nails catching on the carvings he can't make sense of. But it's daylight still, outside, and gradually his eyes adjust to the grey scraps creeping in between the joins, and he sees the air holes drilled in the sides, and understands that the long side of the box is set with bars, behind the solid wood. It is a shutter, and he is in a cage.

_He won't be giving us any more trouble._

Alexander turns his back on the bars and weeps into his hands.

 

By the time George returns, Alexander is lying in pitch darkness. He knows the shape of the cage, now, can keep the panic under control, can run his fingers over the air holes and feel the breeze coming through to keep him breathing. He is keeping his eyes closed so he won't see the dark, reciting poetry under his breath – _crimson in thy lips and in thy cheek_ – when he hears footsteps on the soft carpet.

He strains to hear, the noise muffled by the wood. That clattering, that is fresh wood being laid on the low fire, and that is the curtains being drawn – is it George, does he do it himself every night? Has it got so late already? Time leaves him, sometimes, when he is confined, it might have been hours without his noticing – but there are more footsteps, and George's low voice, and Alexander is focused on nothing else. He rolls over as quietly as he can, moving one limb at a time, trying not to call attention to himself or drown out anything George might do. He can hear movement, still, more than one man's worth, and the rustle of fabric, and a sudden low hiss that makes Alexander's stomach clench tight within him. George speaks again, amusement bright in his voice, and is not answered. Alexander cannot breathe.

He lies still as death while the wood of the cage rattles around him, and the shutter is lifted, lies still while firelight makes his eyes sting. He sees George, crouched down to smirk at him through the bars, in his fine scarlet waistcoat. And behind him, stretched on the bed, a man with golden skin and freckles, watching him in horror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come and hang out with me @duckbunny on the tumblr. I'm always here to chat!
> 
> This chapter was sponsored by @queenjaneapprox.


	9. Chapter 9

Laurens is alive.

Alexander can't breathe. George said he was – but George said he wasn't – and Alexander was sure he was lying, sure that John had never made it off the boat, but here he is, bright as the dream of sunlight. He’s staring at Alexander, twisting against the shackles to look, his face screwed up in disgust. Alexander can see his muscles tensing, fighting for silence. There are fresh bruises all along his side, layered over the yellowing old ones.

“I told you,” George says triumphantly, and Alexander’s eyes snap back to him. “Didn’t I say? And now he shall have what should have been yours. We must be fair about these things.”

“George,” Laurens says, harsh as a rusty saw-blade. “George, I want to know. Was he bad or was I?”

George rolls his eyes and stands. For a moment Alexander can’t see past his body, but he can hear the slap land. Laurens lies still as George straddles his hips and leans down on his back. “He was bad, of course. I wouldn’t have you here for your sake, you ugly brat.”

Alexander flinches. George never calls him that. But John’s eyes are fierce on Alexander’s, and the tiniest smile curves his lips, private between the two of them. Alexander reaches out and curls his hand around the bars.

“Pay attention to _me_ ,” George says petulantly. “He’s not here for you. You’re supposed to be looking at _me_.”

Alexander swallows. “Yes, George. I’m sorry.”

From the corner of his eye, he can see John’s face go blank.

“Did they wash you when you arrived, John, dear?”

The words take a long time to fall from John’s mouth, sullen and sour. “Yes, George, they did.”

“Well. Then you shouldn’t be _too_ filthy. Perhaps you will not quite stain the water _black._ Sit up.” George’s tone is sugary with malice. He’s still leaning down on John’s shoulders. John rolls his eyes before he moves, trying theatrically to heave George’s weight off his back. George catches his balance easily and grins.

“Oh, _sorry,_ John, am I in your way?”

“A little,” Laurens says grimly, and George finally stops sitting on him so he can struggle up to his knees, hindered by the chain on his wrists.

George only undoes one of the shackles to rearrange Laurens, making him turn in place to put his hands behind him before he locks his wrists back together and takes the chain off. Alexander’s stomach twists with guilt. George doesn’t take such precautions with him any more. Doesn’t need to.

There must be a tin bath at the foot of the bed, out of Alexander’s sight. George makes Laurens sit on the edge of the bed, the soft mattress dipping underneath him, and bathes him with a dripping cloth. Laurens twitches away from his hands, glancing desperately over his shoulder at Alexander for a moment when the ordeal begins. Alexander can do nothing but watch him.

He flinches from George’s touch as if it were the first time. Alexander knows how that feels, the desperate urge to escape no matter how gently the hands come. He knows the tension in John’s shoulders is born of disgust and fear and hatred. But when John is touched, his fists clench behind him, and he stares at George like a tormented lion, waiting his moment to pounce.

The air gradually fills with the scent of rosewater and soap. Laurens tips his head back and stare fixedly at the blue-painted ceiling while George washes his legs, humming happily to himself. Alexander can just see his head, dark curls cropped short to fit under his powdered wig, between John’s thighs as he works.

Laurens yelps and struggles against his shackles, turns his head to Alexander, his eyes wild, and Alexander knows where George is washing him and he can’t _do_ anything, can’t even speak, it would only make it worse and his body won’t move and George says chidingly, “Eyes on _me,_ John, dear.”

He makes Laurens lean forward to have his hair washed, cup by cup of sudsy water poured over his head. John is gripping the coverlet so hard he’ll stretch out the fine cloth under his fingers. Alexander is gripping the bars of his cage the same way. Terror is beating at the walls of his ribs, trying to escape.

When John’s hair is clean, by whatever crazed standard George has for it today, he makes him move to the side of the bed nearest Alexander, crawling clumsily across the mattress with his hands still locked behind him, so Alexander can watch better. John holds his gaze like a rope to keep him from drowning. George towels his hair briskly to stop the dripping, and then takes up the hairbrush.

John’s face goes very still at the sight of it.

He endures the first half-dozen slow brush-strokes, running lightly over the top of his curls. But then George lets the brush sink deeper, and John’s head is being yanked about, and he tenses all over trying to hold still, until George sets the brush at his parting for a fourth dragging time and John snaps, “Fuck _off_ , idiot,” and jerks away from his hands.

The flung hairbrush bounces off the bars of the cage. George grabs a fistful of hair and hauls John’s head back. He slaps his face, once, twice, breathing almost as hard as John is, and then his teeth sink into John’s throat and the two of them tip over backwards. John’s feet kick helplessly. He makes a noise that starts in fury, and ends in pure animal terror.

George sits up. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and grins.

When he drags John back up to sitting, both of them wild-eyed and flushed, there is blood on his skin. “Naughty boy,” George purrs. “No matter what I do for you, you’re never grateful. I think you should go back to your room, and think about what happens when you’re bad.”

He presses his thumb against John’s lips. John trembles under his touch, his shoulders heaving where he’s fighting the shackles, and George leans in to kiss him.

“Come along, John, dear. Be good.”

Laurens staggers after him, his balance wrecked by the weeks at sea and the unforgiving hand still wrapped in his hair. Alexander watches their backs until the door swings shut behind them.

He watches until the door opens again, and George comes in alone.

George settles cross-legged on the bed, bouncing gently. He drops the velvet-lined shackles back on the pillow.  “Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he says dismissively. “He’s fine. I just put him away for the night. Such a shame, the kitchen sent up dinner for him, and now it will all go to waste.”

Tears spike up into Alexander’s throat. He doesn’t scrub at his eyes. He knows they’re dry. He watches George pick up a little dish from the tray at the bedside and nibble from the silver spoon. “Mm, stewed pears.”

Alexander doesn’t want to eat, but he hasn’t been fed except for a few bites at lunchtime, and his traitor body doesn’t know any better. He watches George eat and his mouth floods with saliva. He tries to swallow quietly. George glances up at him anyway, but he doesn’t say anything, occupied with his pears.

George sets the empty bowl aside and stretches. “There’s pease and bacon,” he says, sweetly, “if you’re ready to come out now.”

Alexander would do a lot worse than eat from George’s hand if it meant getting out of the cage.

 

The days settle into a ragged rhythm. George’s days are filled from dawn til dusk and finally Alexander understands how the enforced idleness of a sea voyage must have bored him. On some days he almost seems to forget about Alexander entirely.

Alexander encourages that forgetfulness whenever he can.

He doesn’t see John at all. George never brings him to his rooms now, content to have Alexander as his only pet. But he knows where John is, the little room in the corner of the royal apartments, the only room that has a bored guard standing outside it morning and night, and he strains his ears every time he crawls past it at George’s heels trying to hear John’s voice. He grows used to having bruised knees. He learns to ignore the collar squeezing his throat.

George takes him to meetings within the palace, with his brash young friends and with his ministers. Lord North comes every day except Sundays and never mentions Alexander. Alexander listens to him discussing plans for the new governor of the colonies - who it should be, and whether they should govern them all together or as separate parts - and misses him when he goes. He always gets a break from the leash when North visits, and his eyes are kind. He never kicks Alexander for straying too close.

Alexander sleeps every night in George’s bed. He learns that he can shift around without waking George up, provided he doesn’t disturb the blankets. Sometimes he spends most of the day there, too, when George goes to Parliament, and leaves his servants to look after Alexander.

He gets breakfast from them most days, now that George has returned to his usual habits of riding first thing every morning. The servants come in to change the bedding and empty the ashes from the grate and while they’re dusting and polishing, Alexander gets his porridge. Browning, the man who asked his name, has a key to his chains and lets him sit against the headboard to eat, his hands still bound but at least free to rest in his lap. Alexander lies awake at night planning ways to kill him.

Three weeks after they arrive, George finally has his victory parade. Alexander is stretched out on his front, thinking of nothing, when the night outside explodes into sound. For a moment he has no idea at all where he is, wrenching his shoulders against his chains trying to reach for his musket, until the explosions fade away into fiery crackles and he recognises the noise of fireworks. George’s window faces the wrong way to see them but Alexander watches the darkness anyway. The trees outside reflect ghostly colours back at him.

He is still there when the door opens, his arms twisted around to let him sit up, and he steels himself to smile and be pleasing, but George is not alone. He stumbles through the door with his hands entangled in the ivory-and-gold coat of a slender young man. Alexander sits, helpless, and watches them kiss. George is not gentler with this man than with Alexander, but this man kisses him back, and wraps long fingers around the back of George’s neck.

Alexander goes unnoticed until they break apart, giggling softly, to light the candles.

“Oh,” the young man says. “The bed seems to be occupied, your majesty.”

“Hmm? Oh. Forgive me, dear fellow, I quite forgot I left him there.” George fumbles at the shackles, his hands and breath betraying the alcohol his voice doesn’t show. “Unless you’d like a turn with him? He’s quite good with his mouth.”

“I had hoped his majesty might prefer _my_ mouth,” says the man, and bats his eyelids, and that seems to be that. Alexander is hastily collared and his leash pressed into the hand of the guard outside.

“Have someone look after him and bring him back in the morning,” George says dismissively, and shuts the door.

Alexander realises he’s still naked.


	10. Chapter 10

The palace at night is eerie with firelight, empty of the bustle of the day. The marble beneath Alexander's knees is icy cold.

He looks up at the guard, who looks back at him, baffled.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”

Alexander opens his mouth to answer and gets half-choked by the leash.

“I didn't say anything,” the guard says, stark terror in his voice. “I wasn't talking to you. You're not going to talk to me. We're just going to put you somewhere you can't get in trouble and that's all, right? Don't _talk_.”

Alexander realises with a shudder that they talk about him, behind his back, and this is the answer they've come to. He's a contagion. Everything George has done is written on his naked skin and even George's servants are frightened to look at him.

He pushes the hair back from his face and nods.

They wait there, the ridiculous pair of them, the guard standing stiff in his uniform and Alexander naked at his feet, listening to the quiet sounds of lovemaking filtering through the door. Alexander is glad he hasn't been fed this evening or else he's sure he would be sick, hearing the familiar low groan of George's pleasure. The guard doesn't so much as turn his head. He must have heard Alexander every night, since they came back to the palace – must have listened – Alexander rolls onto his side and curls up small. He won't look. He won't think about it.

By the time anything happens, Alexander is going numb from lying on the cold floor, and the noises from the bedchamber have progressed to drunken snoring. The guard shakes his leash to get his attention and Alexander lifts his head just enough to see another man in uniform coming towards them. He struggles back to his knees.

“What's this?” the new man says gruffly, “why's he out here?”

“Making room,” Alexander's keeper says, “his Majesty said to look after him and have him brought back in the morning. Do something with him, will you? He's creeping me out.”

The man stares at Alexander. “Take him off the damn leash, at least. Hasn't he got any clothes?”

“Do you want to explain why you took it off him when his Majesty asks?”

The little flame of hope in Alexander's chest dies away. The new man barely controls his flinch and says “Well, you keep him then, I'm not taking him anywhere like that. He's not making any trouble, is he?”

“This one? Look at him, he's dead behind the eyes. Do you think – do you think he's still got a _soul_ -”

“Don't be superstitious. Just keep an eye on him and send him back in with the King's breakfast. Has he got company?”

“Lord Lockley.”

“I'll let the kitchens know to send up two trays.”

Alexander listens to the stranger's heels ringing on the marble floors until the echoes die away. He bares his teeth against the night. Superstition, rumour – the demon on the British flagship and the wine in the King's cup – it's nonsense. He won't believe. But he can _use_.

He looks up at the guard holding his leash. The man is staring straight ahead, resolutely ignoring Alexander at his feet. Alexander rises up off his heels and sets his hands against the guard's waist, deliberately mimicking a dog's demand for attention. “I'm cold.”

The guard flinches in shock. “ _Jesus,_ ” he hisses, staring down at him.

“I'm cold,” Alexander says again. “There's a fire.”

“Don't _talk_ ,” the guard tells him again, but he's clearly shaken. Alexander keeps his hands where they are, pressing a little hard into his side and belly. He watches the decision forming in the guard's eyes. “Alright. But you have to be _quiet_ , alright? No more talking. Nothing. Just stay put and don't make a fuss.”

He leads Alexander over to the banked fire. There's not much light, but a wave of heat still radiates from the coals. There's a thick Indian rug in front of the grate. The guard casts around for something to do with Alexander's leash and finally settles on looping it over the poker in its stand.

“Just – Stay,” he says, and steps cautiously away, back to his post at the door. Alexander sits up and hugs his knees. The fire at his back is no substitute for George's blankets, but it is enough to let his eyes close. Perhaps he will be able to sleep.

 

The morning is a clatter of bodies around him, too many to keep track of. He is woken from dozing by a maid trying to rebuild the fire, and has to submit to the frightened guard clinging to his leash again, at an hour so early even George has not stirred yet. The world is still dark outside.

He doesn't get his morning porridge. Alexander is furious about that – the one meal he can usually count on, stolen from him – but George wants to breakfast with Lord Lockley and he ruffles Alexander's hair on the way past and says “Dress him and bring him along,” so Alexander has to crawl at Browning's heels in his shirt and breeches, just enough clothing to make him feel naked still, and lie at George's feet hoping for a bite of toast.

There is something urgent happening, to judge by the number of ministers coming to see George, and the number of whispered conversations they have amongst themselves. Alexander know he should be listening, but he's so tired that the words blur into grey fog. Something about France mobilising its fleets, and an attack coming on the West Indies, unless they're sailing for Africa, and perhaps they might be blockaded in the Channel, or should be left to escape and then the British ships sent in to bombard their shipyards – Alexander can't keep track. The Portuguese are discussed fervently for twenty minutes and then forgotten about. He tries to build the map in his mind but he can't remember where the borders are. It doesn't matter anyway. All he has to do is be good.

By lunchtime, Alexander is falling asleep where he sits. He's nauseous with exhaustion. He has no right to be so tired, he thinks, one night of bad sleep ought to be nothing, one night on a cold floor, but he can't force himself into wakefulness and though he tries to kneel up straight he finds himself leaning over against George's thigh. George strokes his hair and doesn't seem offended. He clings to that small mercy.

A messenger interrupts George's tea. “I beg your pardon, your Majesty, but the Members are awaiting your presence in Parliament for the emergency bill. Lord North asked for you to be informed.”

George sets his cup down. “Well, then we must get work,” he says briskly, and pushes his chair back. Alexander stumbles on his knees to follow and the tug against the leash makes George notice him. “Oh.” He holds the leash out, not to the messenger but to one of the palace servants. “Just put him in with the other one, I've no time for him today.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the servant says obediently, and Alexander is crawling at the fourth set of heels today and he wants to cry because he doesn't know what's going on. There's a guard at the panelled wooden door. He doesn't grasp the significance of _the other one_ until he's inside and the door being locked behind him.

Laurens is lying on his back on the window seat, his head tipped over the edge of the cushion and his legs kicked up against the boards that block out the window. There's enough clear glass left at the top to let the daylight in. He stares for a moment, looking wild with his hair hanging loose around his head, before he rolls over.

“Alexander.”

His voice is very loud in the silence. Alexander fidgets, his eyes stinging. “I'm sorry,” he says, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy.

“Shut up,” John says. He rattles his shackles, making Alexander notice that he's chained to the wall, out of reach of the door. “Get over here?”

Right. He can't rest yet, it's not evening. Alexander wills himself into motion and crawls the few feet to John's side. His hands are shaking. John slips down to the floor to meet him.

“Christ,” he says softly, “what have they been doing to you?”

Alexander shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says again, meaninglessly, and grabs terrified at John's hand on his collar. “He'll come back.”

John doesn't move for a long time. “Okay,” he says at last, “okay,” and flings his arms around Alexander. The chains dig into his back. Alexander slowly raises his arms to hold him in return. He leans his forehead against John's shoulder and breathes.

When John draws back, his eyes are hard. “Okay. And now get up on the seat, it's softer than the floor.”

Alexander blinks at him, not understanding. John cups his cheek in one hand – _rough,_ his senses supply, _not George, wrong –_ and kisses his lips. He can't tell which of them is trembling.

“Sleep,” John says hoarsely, “go on. I'll keep watch.”

 

Alexander wakes in the golden light of sunset. He's still drowsy, watching the scene unfold like another dream, George coming through the door, John on his feet and at the full stretch of his chains, the crucifix on the wall floating above their heads.

George smiles, all sharp teeth and malice. “Out of the way, John, dear.”

“Fuck off,” John says. His voice is low but it doesn't shake. Alexander hits the floor with a thump.

It works. George looks away from John. “There's a good boy. Come along, Alex.”

Alexander obeys at once. He crawls to George, his head low, dragging his leash behind him. He can't bear to look up at John, not even to brush against him on the way past. John deserves better than Alexander. Should not be trapped here for Alexander's sake.

The door closing behind them is not heavy enough to silence John's rage.

George has been discussing a party for weeks with his friends, but the first hour is so taken up with business Alexander doesn't quite realise what it is. He kneels quietly by George's chair, keeping his eyes on the edge of the rug and his hands behind his back, on his best behaviour lest George remember John's defiance earlier. George can usually be sweetened with a bit of flattery.

He doesn't realise it's the party until the other -

Alexander can't find a name for her. For what she is. Is she a prisoner, like him? Or a servant, or something more complicit in her degradation? Cavendish calls them both _pets_ , and fondles the woman on his lap, his long fingers slipping up beneath her skirts. She keeps her expression blank.

The brandy goes around, and the cigars, and then the woman is being handed off to entertain other guests. The men grope her breasts and kiss her and laugh much too loudly when she flinches. Alexander's thoughts are swept up into dread, buzzing around his skull, incoherent. There is nothing to be done, when Cavendish demands his attention, but obey. The green cloth of the billiard table is harsh against his face.

When Cavendish is done with him Alexander drops to the floor. George is watching him with glittering eyes. He is still trying to force his limbs to respond when another young nobleman grabs his hair.

George has not moved when Alexander finally gets away. He sets his broad hand on the back of Alexander's neck and Alexander leans into the touch, desperate for George's shelter. He doesn't dare climb into George's lap, for all that seems the safest place, but he presses close to his shins and hides his face in George's velvet breeches. George pets him and lifts his head to feed him brandy.

Alexander is dizzy with drink, stretched on the floor with Cavendish's shoes digging into his ribs, when the cannonfire starts.

 

The next two days are a dragging endless chaos. Alexander is hurried back to George's bedchamber at once and chained to the bed by a frightened serving man, but he is still in his breeches and George does not come for hours, though Alexander sits up and waits until he can't keep his eyes from closing. The cannons are muffled by the distance. Orange light dances against the window. London is burning.

There is no routine. George has a screaming tantrum when Lord North visits in the morning, outraged that he cannot leave his palace, that the French could ever have reached Britain's shores. There must be treason in the ranks and North must seek it out, now, this minute, even as the French are battering their way along the Thames. North bows and says “At once, Your Majesty,” in a voice so cold that even George can hear it, and chases him out of the room with accusations of betrayal.

There are redcoats in the palace. They watch Alexander and mutter amongst themselves. He ignores them. George angry is George dangerous; he has no time to spare for soldiers.

“You're still mine,” George says, alone with Alexander that night. “You're still mine. I won't let them take you. Whatever happens, I'll keep you with me.”

Alexander swallows around him and prays for a French victory.

On the second day, the fighting reaches the grounds. There is a ring of redcoats around the palace, twenty rows deep, but the French know where the prize is. They keep pushing, until the redcoats have their backs against the solid stone walls, right beneath the palace windows. A musket ball shatters the window in George's dressing room and the King for all his raging understands that he cannot escape the trap now. The servants huddle below stairs, waiting.

Two hours after sunset, the front door is broken down.

There is fighting on the stairs. George sends his personal guards to join the soldiers there. He is icy-calm giving the order but Alexander can see despair in his face. He sits down in his rooms to wait.

When the door is finally opened, George is sprawled on a sofa with Alexander in his arms, a human shield. His chest is hot against Alexander's back, his fingers curled possessively around his throat. The door slams back against the wall, denting the fine plasterwork, and the room is suddenly filled with noise and bodies and the hot thick scent of battle. George lifts his head to speak to the wild-eyed Frenchman who leads the troops.

“Have you come for my surrender?”

The Frenchman raises his pistol. His face is twisted in revulsion. Alexander just has time to recognise Lafayette before he fires.


	11. Chapter 11

Alexander is certain he's dead.

He hears the crack of the gunpowder, and the sickening sound of a bullet tearing through flesh, but the pain doesn't come. Hot blood floods down his neck and the pain still doesn't come. George's arms go slack around him. George's chest falls and does not rise again and there is still no pain and Alexander flings himself away from the sofa, finally understanding. His knees crack against the floor just like the gunshot and he turns to see George, his eyes wide in death, helpless, with a bullet hole through his neck.

Alexander digs his fingers into the wound and _pulls_.

He is bloody to the wrists before someone grips his shoulder, and Lafayette says, “Enough, enough, he is dead, it is enough.”

Alexander strains his memory for the French words and says, “For God's sake, someone get me a coat.”

“You heard him,” Lafayette says to his soldiers, and “no, I don't care, give him yours,” and the coat he drapes around Alexander's shoulders is a French uniform, warm with body heat. Alexander fights his way into the sleeves and then to his feet, the floor strange beneath him. His calf burns in protest, the knife scar resisting the stretch. He clutches at Lafayette's arm for balance.

Lafayette stares into his eyes for long seconds. “I did not believe it could be you,” he says.

“But you came.”

“Of course I came.” Lafayette grips his arms. “Of course I did. Come, let us go, we must tell the rest that the King is dead.”

“Wait,” Alexander says, resisting his lead, “where is John? Where is Laurens?”

“My friend, he is dead.”

Ice sheets down Alexander's spine. “No. No, he can't be. No.”

Lafayette looks very grave. “He died with Washington. Did you not know? I am sorry to tell you this way. He has been dead for months.”

“No,” Alexander insists, “no, he is _here_ , he has been here, he's not dead he _can't_ be-”

“Show me, show me where,” Lafayette interrupts, and Alexander limps and stumbles through the royal apartment, clinging to Lafayette's shoulder for balance, to the little corner room that once was a chapel. The soldiers waste no time with the lock. They break the door down.

John is standing when they get through, stretched against his chains with his arms pulled back behind him, his eyes ablaze. “About time,” he says, in much smoother French than Alexander's, and “shit, Alex, you're bleeding -”

Alexander puts both hands up to cradle John's face, impossibly real. He leaves bloodstains on his skin. “It's his, I'm not hurt, it's all his, Lafayette shot him, he's gone, he's dead,” he babbles, and John shudders all over.

“The key's on the hook,” he says to the soldiers, “get this shit off of me.”

He wraps his arms around Alexander the moment they're free and says into his hair, “Show me.”

Alexander can hardly balance with the old wound in his leg, and John is weak from confinement; they stagger drunkenly together through the palace to where George lies, his eyes open, the blood not yet dried. John makes a noise never meant for human throats at the sight of him and wrenches out of Alexander's hold. Alexander falls to his knees and watches. He has never seen anything so necessary. John has broken three of George's fingers before he is pulled away by Lafayette and a French soldier without a coat. He screams, struggling against their grip, straining to get his teeth into Lafayette's wrist. Alexander is trying to stand but his leg won't hold him. He says “John,” through numb lips.

John's gaze snaps across the room. He pulls away from the restraining hands and the French let him go, let him come to Alexander and touch his face, help him up, stand with his arms tight around him and glare at the soldiers until they back away.

“Outside,” Alexander says, when he can speak through the dizzying fog that fills his body, “let's go outside.”

He makes his way down the broad stairs on foot. He has John on one side and the banister on the other and he has to put both feet on every step and ease his way down like an old man, but he will leave this place upright.

The courtyard is littered with dead soldiers. Alexander catches glimpses through the chaos, of redcoats shooting from a high window, officers conferring, a dead horse seeping wetly onto the flagstones, and over it all the smoke still billowing. Lafayette has George's scarlet coat in his hands, the silk stained dark with royal blood. Alexander follows John's lead, stumbling away from the door to lean on the cold wall.

John grips his borrowed coat and pulls himself close. Alexander leans down into him, pressing their foreheads together. For a long time, neither of them speaks.

“I should have torn him to pieces,” John says at last.

“I wish you had.” Alexander's good leg is shaking with the effort of standing. He pulls away from John for a moment, meaning to catch his balance, but then he is sliding down the wall to sit on the stained flagstones. Cold, rough bricks behind him. Cold ground. John joins him, crouched with his back to the wall, ready to fight. They wait.

The last of the battle dies away. The smoke clears. If there is fighting still, it is beyond the palace walls, and too distant to be heard. George's coat has been tied to a pike by chattering French soldiers and set to wave like a flag above the gatehouse. Alexander watches it all, uncaring, until he realises that John has sunk to sitting beside him, and is shivering in his shirt and breeches.

Alexander looks over at the officers and says “Lafayette.”

Lafayette does not respond. John sits up straighter and repeats “Lafayette!” in a voice so loud it echoes off the walls, and Lafayette turns and comes to them.

“John, my friend. Forgive me. We should not have left you here so long.”

John glances at Alexander and Lafayette's gaze follows. “Lafayette,” Alexander says, dully, “we need a room. And a pistol.”

 

Nothing happens quickly, after a battle. Lafayette has to confer with his comrades and find out where there is an inn still standing – housing them in the palace is not even considered. Then he must find an aide he can spare to take them, and then as they are finally standing to leave there is another delay when he sees they are both barefoot, and boots have to be stripped from dead redcoats so they will not spear themselves on a stray bayonet. Alexander's head is still swimming in that terrible buzzing fog and he is almost useless, watching himself hobble around. Lafayette reaches to support him but John is there faster, his teeth bared, and Alexander limps along with an arm across John's shoulders.

Lafayette takes them to the inn himself. There is a little room on the first floor, barely more than a closet, but it has a bed and a low fire. The owner is a pink-faced figure behind the bar sharing brittle smiles with his French guests. Alexander sits on the bed, trembling from the strain of dragging himself up the stairs, even with help.

“I am leaving you Cloistre,” Lafayette says, standing in the narrow bedroom doorway, “he speaks English and will fetch whatever you need.” He pulls a pistol from his belt, appropriated like their boots from some dead soldier, and hesitates. “If I give you this – If you plan to use it on yourselves, you'll need two.”

“It's not for us,” Alexander says, meeting his worried gaze, “it's for anyone who comes through that door.”

Lafayette sets the pistol in his outstretched hand. “I'll tell Monsieur Cloistre he must knock. I must go back to the palace – we're not finished, the Prince has not been found – send Cloistre to find me, if you need me.” He looks between them, still uncertain. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Alexander says. He can't find the eloquence for anything else. Lafayette reaches for the door handle and seems to change his mind – he steps away with the door still open.

John goes to close it behind him. “Hey, Laf,” he says, and Lafayette looks over his shoulder. “Thanks.”

 

They sit together on the edge of the bed. The mattress is lumpy. Alexander could kiss it. He watches his hand instead, gripping the edge of the blanket, the way his fingers open one by one and draw closed again, John's leg an inch away, unreachable.

It's John who touches first, his cool palm on Alexander's cheek, making him look up. His eyes are wide in the dim firelight, golden brown, and his long lashes and the fall of his hair – Alexander could drown in him. His hands come up unbidden to grip John's shirt. John's lips move in something not quite speech before he buries his face in Alexander's shoulder.

Alexander frees one hand and wraps it around John's back. John is not shaking, not crying. Only holding him around the waist and breathing hard. Alexander's eyes sting and he blinks fiercely, trying to keep them dry.

“I missed you,” John says, muffled against Alexander's borrowed coat. “I fucking missed you.”

“Me too,” Alexander says softly. He leans his head against John's, warm curls against his cheek, familiar.

John turns a little and licks his neck. Alexander is still frozen in surprise when John pulls away, his breath loud between them, and lifts Alexander's hand. His bloody hand, caked under the fingernails with what George spilled, when Alexander ripped open his bullet-torn throat. John opens his mouth for Alexander's touch. He sucks on his stained fingers as if they carried honey, licking them clean. His eyes close, a strange awestruck relief upon his face. When he finally pulls away he drops a delicate kiss on Alexander's rust-red knuckles.

He speaks in a low whisper. “Are you tired?”

Alexander nods.

“Sleep,” John says, kissing Alexander's hand again. “Give me that pistol, I'll keep watch.”

He wants to, but - “It's your turn,” he says, trying to be brave.

“That's bullshit.” John huffs out something not quite a laugh. “You had it – I couldn't – Just let me do this?”

He is tired, far too tired to argue for the honour of guard duty, so Alexander only nods to that and tugs his hand away, struggling out of his coat with heavy limbs. John sits back a little, looking baffled, until Alexander drapes it over him. “Don't get cold,” he says, and starts pulling at the blanket until John gets the idea and stands up a moment so Alexander can get underneath it. He kicks off his too-big boots and lies down. The world threatens to spin around him but John is at the end of the bed, a loaded pistol resting in his lap, and Alexander clings to the fact. He shuffles around to use John's thigh for a pillow.

John's hand wavers in the air above him, not touching. Alexander reaches up to take it. He curls up under the blanket, his head in John's lap, one hand stretched above his head in John's gentle hold. He closes his eyes.

He sleeps.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Alexander wakes in the darkness of the deep night, with no light breaking but the dull red glow of embers. He lies still a moment, feeling the warmth of a body beneath his cheek, a hand clasped in his, and doesn't move until the sleep lifts from his thoughts and he remembers that George is dead. Dizzy relief streaks along his bones.

He turns his head and presses a closed-mouthed kiss to John's thigh.

John squeezes his hand. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Can you – can I give you the pistol? I'm starting to fade, here.”

Alexander stretches, rolling onto his back with his arms in the air. His feet poke out from under the blanket. “Fuck, John, it's cold in here.”

“I stopped noticing when my leg went numb.” They're both speaking in the smallest of whispers, but John's eyes are gleaming wicked through the shadows, proof of his smirk. “Your head is too heavy.”

“You should have woken me up.”

“I just did.”

Alexander's throat closes up, threatening him with tears he can't explain. He blinks them back anyway, pushing the blanket aside to hide how his face twists up. “Fuck, it's really cold. Swap places?”

“You take the coat, then,” John whispers, and he's still shrugging out of it when Alexander sees the basket of firewood by the hearth, and a mad idea takes him.

He slides to his knees on the smooth floorboards. John goes silent behind him, watching. Alexander's hands don't quite tremble when he reaches for the first log, but there's a shivery giggle working its way out of his chest. He fits three pieces carefully into the hearth, the ends dug into the embers and their tops leaning together. It's good seasoned wood, neatly quartered, strange under his hands. Strange to be doing something with his hands.

He glances back at John, defensive. “We can. It's ours. It's meant to be – you're right, maybe that's too much -”

“Wait,” John says, stopping Alexander as he reaches for the wood again. “Let it burn.”

He holds out the French coat to Alexander and Alexander pulls it on. It's a little too large for him on the shoulders but John's body has made it toasty-warm and he curls into it, wrapping it around himself. John shuffles down the bed to let him hop up and settle with his back to the wall, the ordinary whitewashed plaster. He takes the gun and checks it over automatically.

“If anyone comes in, don't take the chance,” John says, not looking at him. He drags the blanket over his body and kicks around to get comfortable, pillowed on his own arms with his head pointed away from Alexander. Alexander misses him acutely for a moment, a stab of pain between his ribs, until John's feet worm under his thigh. He steals the end of the blanket, pulling it over his lap and John's feet both, and sits with one hand on the pistol and the other beneath the blanket on John's ankle.

“Your feet are freezing.”

“I know,” John says, not lifting his head. “Let me sleep, will you? Don't talk all night.”

Alexander leans back against the wall. He runs his thumb across the handle of the gun. The new wood is starting to catch in the fireplace. He watches it flickering into light.

 

Morning comes slowly. Alexander drifts, thinking of nothing, caught up in the fire and the sound of John breathing. The flames burn down again to embers but he doesn't get up for more wood – he'd wake John if he moved and it's not so very cold, not with the coat and the blanket over his lap. He moves the pistol from hand to hand as his fingers go stiff.

The nights in England drag out long. Alexander misses the yellow dawn of the islands like an itch behind his eyes, impatient for the weak northern sun to finally rise. The first movement in the room above their heads makes him freeze, a sudden crack of floorboards, a hum of voices that makes every nerve prickle with expectation, but their door does not swing open. The noises build into a clatter all through the inn. Alexander relaxes back into his watch.

John wakes himself up rolling over, when he tries to rearrange the blanket and ends up kicking Alexander hard in the hip. He sits bolt upright, scrabbling away towards the wall. Alexander raises his free hand and whispers, “Easy, easy, it's me, it's just me.” John glares at him furiously.

“I know that.” He scrubs hard at his face. “Who else would it fucking be?”

“Sorry.”

John tips his head back against the plaster. “Sun’s coming up.”

“At last. I think half the inn is awake already.”

“Do you think there’s breakfast?”

It’s not a joke. It’s not meant to be funny. But Alexander feels the giggles bubbling up in him anyway and he chokes around them, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. John grins fiercely. “Come here.”

“What?”

“Come here, let me get it off for you.” John watches his incomprehension for a long moment. He laughs bitterly. “You’re still wearing the damn collar, Hamilton.”

Alexander’s hand flies unbidden to his throat. Smooth leather meets his fingertips, the stitching caked with dried blood. His heart stops in his chest. “I forgot,” he says, a bare scratching of sound above the shadow pressing him down.

John looks grim. “Come here. It’s alright, let me.” He shuffles closer, reaching out for Alexander’s throat. Alexander keeps still for him, ducks his head to let him reach easier to fumble at the back of it.

“It’s alright. It’s just a buckle. I thought – I thought they might have stitched - but I can get this.”

Alexander flinches, a tight curl of his shoulders, John’s tugging at the collar and twisting it against tender skin and it’s too tight and he can’t _breathe_ until it comes away, peels off his throat and leaves him naked and raw underneath. John’s touch against his bare skin burns.

The collar rests in John’s hands, a plain strip of black leather, the red stitching gone dark with polish. Alexander stares down at the open circle, at the break. John’s knuckles are white through his skin. His hand jerks and the collar leaps away.

It clatters off the back of the hearth. The ashes puff up around it, red embers glowing beneath. Alexander keeps staring at it, as a tiny coil of smoke rises where it rests on the coals, until John touches his cheek.

“It’s done,” John says hoarsely, “it’s gone. Never again.”

Alexander presses his forehead into John’s shoulder, so he won’t have to look at anything, and lets himself be held.

 

There is grainy white light creeping around the shutters before they move. Alexander sits on the edge of the bed, carefully pointing his toes. His good leg is fine, though he warily tests it first, remembering how it ached after he fought the stairs yesterday. It moves as it should.

He has to steel himself before testing the other. Pointing his toes, he can do that, as far as he likes, and only hurt if he tenses his calf muscle – but that hurts whatever position he puts his foot in and he can’t keep it up for long. But bending his foot back -

It doesn’t go all the way. Not far enough to put it flat on the floor. There’s a horrible stabbing warning from the wound when he pushes it. Alexander sets both feet on the floor, one flat, one heel optimistically tilted up, and tries to stand.

John wraps himself in the blanket to watch. Alexander wobbles, sets his hand on the wall, but he’s upright. He can’t get his foot properly down no matter how he relaxes his leg – his calf won’t _stretch_ that much, even though his foot itself seems fine. He can bear weight on it, enough to stand, and he braces himself on the wall to try a step. Short, halting, on his toes. It hurts.

“How bad?” John asks.

“If I were a horse, you’d put me down.”

“Don’t talk like that. We’ll feed you plenty of mash and oats – hey, oats. Porridge. Breakfast, I’m _hungry_. Let’s rob a bakery.”

They’re pulling on their stolen redcoat boots when someone taps at their door. Alexander has the pistol in his hands before he can think. John draws himself up.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” says a familiar voice in approximate English. “Will you come down and eat?”

“Breakfast,” John says triumphantly.

They do not need to rob a bakery. The French have done it for them. Alexander limps his way down the narrow stairs, braced against both sides for fear his leg will give out and send him rolling down, but he makes it without injury. He sits on a bench beside John and stares at the food. Bread, apples, cold ham; better than most mornings on campaign. He stops himself reaching for John’s hand.

Lafayette passes him a roll. “Eat, friend, you both look half-starved.”

“Who’s baking this morning? There’s a war going on.” Alexander turns the warm bread over in his hands.

“London does not stop for fire, flood or the French.” Lafayette takes a slice of ham and starts alternating bites with his own roll. John leans against Alexander’s other side and Alexander glances round to see him chin-deep in an apple. His eyes are half-closed in contentment.

The bread is dark and chewy, the crust breaking easily under his teeth. Alexander works his way through two rolls and a slice of ham before his stomach starts cramping in protest. He leaves the table with his pockets full of apples.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Alexander desperately wants to pace, but his ankle trembles with every step he takes. If it gives way - He pushes aside the image of himself on his knees on the inn’s dark flagstones and huddles a little deeper in his borrowed coat. John is sitting on the edge of a table, playing with a stolen knife. He has nowhere to keep it but in his hands and Alexander twitches every time he seems about to fumble his catch and skewer himself, but disaster has not yet struck. From Alexander’s spot against the wall he has the fire’s warmth and eyes on both the window and the bar. Through the former he can see the looming bulk of the palace, with George’s stained coat still flying merrily above the gatehouse and French soldiers on guard. Leaning across the latter is Lafayette, arguing with a sullen innkeeper. Lafayette’s English is uncertain, and the innkeeper’s French is non-existent; it’s never been entirely clear what they’re arguing _about_. Lafayette tried to pay the man at one point and got his coins pointedly swept onto the floor.

Eventually, after much exasperation on both sides and Lafayette attempting to communicate by knocking his own head against the bar, he comes back to John and Alexander clutching a little scrap of paper. “Clothes,” he says, and Alexander stiffens. He’s not wearing _much_ but he’s not going to give it up -

“Are you paying?” John asks cheerfully, “Alexander will make you buy him silks.”

“Shut up,” Alexander mutters, but his chest unclenches a little.

“Of course I am paying. Alexander, how bad is your leg? How far can you walk?”

“As far as I have to.” Lafayette stares at him, waiting, and Alexander scowls. “I haven’t - I don’t know. You point the way and I’ll keep up.”

“I will send someone for a carriage.”

 

Whatever the innkeeper thought of his French guests, he has sent them to the right place. The street is crowded with tailors and cobblers and shops selling handkerchiefs and stockings and hats. Alexander sets his hand on John’s shoulder and limps along in his stolen boots. The sellers here are more inclined to be helpful, perhaps because the French did not spend the night drinking their beer without paying for it, but even so John gets better results than Lafayette. He ends up with the purse, once they have both acquired decent coats not in French livery and are haggling with a bootmaker, while Lafayette slips away and returns with hot chestnuts. Alexander eats them with his hands while the cobbler clucks over his foot and suggests he have his heels built up to support it. He says “Whatever you think best,” and licks his fingers clean. John lurks behind his shoulder and does not stop watching the man, even when the street clatters with passing soldiers.

“So is that it, then,” John says suddenly, in his easy French, “The war’s over, everyone go shopping?”

“Not exactly over,” Lafayette answers. “We found the crown prince last night, on the road to Plymouth, but the British are still defending Southampton and some of the militias have gone to ground. There will be fighting for weeks before it is all over. And Parliament has to sign the surrender.”

Alexander turns his head. “Parliament.”

“Yes. It is not like France, where His Majesty would do it himself. Here it is Parliament that makes war. Many of the ministers fled when we attacked but we are bringing them back. They will give Louis the crown, and - there is some plan drawn up for taking back royal powers from the ministers, but that will take longer to persuade them.”

“A bayonet is a powerful argument.” John is digging his fingers into his thigh, through his new breeches. “What happens if they find their courage and say no?”

Lafayette shrugs. “His Majesty is generous, but not infinitely patient. They cannot keep their country by refusing to sign. If they will not cooperate they are free to choose death.”

“Ha,” Alexander says, loudly. “Hah. Serves them right.”

“I have destroyed one monarchy to strengthen another,” Lafayette says, and looks out at the half-empty street while John smiles at Alexander, wolfishly pleased.

 

Alexander’s knee is swollen by the time they make it back to the inn. John staggers under his weight helping him down from the carriage but he glares at Lafayette when he tries to help. Alexander hops inside with only John for support.

There are three messengers waiting for Lafayette along with his own aides. He rolls his eyes despairingly. “I see I have been caught neglecting things. John, I have sent Cloistre out with the troops, but if you do not mind French I can leave you a man - good. Here, take some money, and that way you may go out - I am sorry to leave you. I will come back when I can. Gentlemen, who is first?” and with that he turns away and leaves Alexander staring at his back. John jingles his coins and looks speculatively at the door.

Alexander leans a little heavier against him. “A rest, first, John?”

“Oh.” He nods at once, looking at Alexander’s face for signs of exhaustion. “Yes, of course. Whatever you need. Can you manage the stairs?”

He can’t, not exactly, but he can put one arm over John’s shoulders and the other hand on the banister and grip for dear life while he hauls himself up, his bad leg crooked up uselessly. He stays on his feet until the door of their little room is closed behind them, and then he tumbles onto the bed.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Alexander raises his head. “What?”

“I’d forgotten how good you look in green.”

“Shut up.” He lets his head fall back, his eyes closed. He pats the lumpy mattress beside him experimentally and can’t help smiling when John’s weight makes it shift. “We should close the shutters.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to kiss you.”

John breathes in. Alexander feels him moving but he doesn’t open his eyes, not until he can sense John leaning over him, his breath tickling Alexander’s face. He looks, then, into golden eyes narrowed with intent, and leans up as he hasn’t for months to kiss John’s mouth.

John holds very still. He only turns his head a little to kiss back, and Alexander feels how rough they fit together, both of them with two days of stubble, and grips John’s coat to keep him close.

Panic floods him suddenly, “Shit. Shit, my apples, I left them in the other coat,” but John grins just as suddenly and says, “No, I rescued them,” and digs a glossy red one out of his pocket as proof. Alexander memorises the bulge in his pockets when he stands up to shed his new coat. His breath catches at the sight of John in shirt and waistcoat, looking just as he ought to, only a little thin. John presses their foreheads together when he lies back down.

“I thought you were dead,” Alexander says, into the quiet space between them. “Fuck. I thought you were dead.”

“I’m here. I’m alive.”

“ _Stay_ alive.”

“I will. I promise, I will.” He takes a deep breath, stirring Alexander’s hair. “You were all I could think about, the whole time, every time he left I kept thinking about you -”

“So think about _me._ ”

John’s scowl very slowly softens. He kisses Alexander again, his hand stroking Alexander’s side, his waist. He murmurs “Hamilton,” almost under his breath.

“Jack,” he says in answer, “close the shutters.”

 

Alexander gets John’s waistcoat open at record speed, but he keeps being stopped when he tries to pull his shirt up. “Come on, Jack, I want to _see_ you.”

“No,” John says again, and pulls his face up to kiss. Alexander tips forward into him, until John is stretched flat on the bed.

“Well then,” he says, pulling back, “if I can’t look at you I’ll just have to eat you.”

He licks his lips exaggeratedly. John’s eyes widen. “Christ.”

“Not quite.” Alexander fumbles at the placket of John’s breeches. He wriggles down the bed, kisses John’s stomach through his shirt, tugs at his waistband with his teeth. John makes a helpless noise and tilts his hips up.

Alexander has to keep looking at his face. It’s not that he doesn’t know whose cock he’s sucking but somehow he has to keep checking anyway, keep looking up at golden eyes in place of blue. John’s noises go down his spine to wake a need he’d almost forgotten about. He moves without thinking to snatch away the hand that comes tangling into his hair.

John hits him.

Alexander rolls away into the wall. He curls around himself, his eyes tight shut. He can’t breathe. John’s panting is harsh in his ears. John scrabbling away up the bed. John’s head hitting the wall. John swallowing and swallowing and at last gritting out, “Sorry.”

Alexander’s shoulders curl tighter. He can’t think. He can’t tell how much time has passed before John says, “God, Hamilton, please just say something,” and he manages to force out “Sorry,” in a whisper.

John laughs, sobs, one of those, and comes a few inches back towards him. “I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think - I never saw what he - God. You know what, fuck it, I’ll just - I’ll put my hands behind my back next time. Fuck, I don’t think I can - Alexander, look at me? Please?”

Alexander uncurls himself muscle by muscle. His chest hurts. He can’t quite meet John’s eyes, his face still turned aside, trying to protect himself. He says, “Kiss me.”

“What?”

“Kiss me,” Alexander insists, his gaze fixed on John’s mouth, until John finally leans in and in, stretching himself out to reach Alexander, with his hands pressed firmly to the mattress. The hunger flares up again in Alexander’s belly and he kisses back, touching John on the shoulders, the arms, the hidden curve of his ribs. John groans softly.

“Forget it,” Alexander says. “It never happened. Don’t talk about it. Just kiss me.”

They end up lying down again, Alexander a little on top, hardly stopping for breath. Alexander can feel the chasm beneath their tight-rope and he doesn’t dare risk the fall. He reaches down and squeezes himself through his own breeches. It jolts him like cold air through an opened door. He whimpers.

“Alexander?”

His wits are too scattered to answer at once. “Fuck. Fucking _Christ_ , God, that feels so fucking-“ He kisses John as hard as he can bear. “It’s been a while. God. John, Jack, you too, I want to see, I want,” and they dissolve into each other, kisses and rough breaths and their hands knocking together as they move. Alexander barely manages to get his breeches out of the way before they can be ruined. John rolls a little away, his back arching, and Alexander fits himself gratefully against the curve of John’s body as he falls back to earth.

“Fuck,” John says.

Alexander presses in closer, his arm around John’s waist. “Mmhm.”

“I don’t want to get up.”

“Mm.” He feels John twisting a little and pushes his head firmly against his back.

“Are you sleeping on me?”

“Mmhm.”

“Fuck you,” John says easily, and scrabbles on the floor for the blanket.


	14. Chapter 14

The French soldier Lafayette left with them is called Pierre. John bullies him into carrying up food to their room, and they feast on thick slices of bread, hot beef and redcurrant jelly, enough to make Alexander’s stomach hurt again. He dips his bread into beef juices and sweet jelly and doggedly works his way through it. He feels as though his stomach has forgotten how to eat, and wonders why it didn’t also forget hunger, when it might have been useful. John is visibly struggling to finish his share, and when the plate is finally clear they sit back against the wall and watch the fire, until John’s fidgets get too much for him and he says “Let’s go out.”

Alexander’s hips ache, but it’s a dull throb, more bearable since their nap, and down the stairs goes easier than coming up. The French soldier insists on coming with them, until John snaps “Are we your prisoners?” and he recoils from the sudden spitting wildcat in his face and says “No, no, I beg your pardon, you are quite free, only please tell me where you are going or the Marquis will hang me for it,” in French so plain that even Alexander can follow it, and giggles. 

John says, “We are going to the theatre,” and with that grand statement they limp out to find a public carriage. Alexander can get into it quite well, with his good leg to lift him, and he settles onto the cushioned seat with a delightful feeling of freedom.

“Where to, gentlemen?”

John looks at Alexander and shrugs. Alexander grins. Why not, since they’re here and free? Why not go to the theatre after all?

London has its disreputable parts just as any city must, but in London they are nestled close, where the great men may easily reach them. There is a public house every few feet, or so it seems in the grimy streets around the grimy play-houses, half a mile from Parliament. They buy dark beer with Lafayette’s money and drink it slowly, chewing on greasy pork rinds and licking the salt off their fingers. Alexander finds himself looking around for Burr and Mulligan, and feeling they must be in a Loyalist den, from the accents all around them. Wandering the streets is impossible, and would be foolish anyway, in a city they don’t know; Alexander gets direction from the barkeep to a satire playing nearby.

The theatre smells as strongly of beer as the public house did, with a strong overtone of smoke. The two of them make a ridiculous sight, hobbling up the steps with Alexander hanging off John for balance, looking too drunk to stand, and Alexander resolves to buy a walking stick tomorrow. Better to look helpless than to really be so.

The play is bawdy and not skilfully written, but Alexander laughs himself breathless at “Lord South”, played by a fat man with several additional cushions inside his shirt, who loses his spectacles, his coat and his colonies in quick succession to a pack of wily merchants. The nobles racing wooden horses while London riots behind them are equally funny, and then King George walks onto the stage.

Alex knows him at once. It’s in the strut, the sugary smile, the scarlet coat. He can’t focus on the man’s face. He doesn’t dare try. He fixes his eyes on the gilt buttons on George’s chest and concentrates on keeping his breathing silent - he’s not supposed to be here - he’s not supposed to be walking around - he’s not supposed to be with John _they’re not meant to be here_ they escaped and George is here and they’re going to get _caught_ \- 

George speaks to the room. He sings. Alex doesn’t hear a word, intent on listening for his own name. John’s fingers are clutching bruising hard on his arm but he doesn’t have time to care about that now. George keeps looking out across the room, scanning for faces, and he must be trying to find them and no-one in this crowd will save them when he does. There’s no escape. There’s never been any escape.

A thought finally sparks through his sluggish brain. Gun. John has a stolen gun in his coat. Alex digs his nails into John’s hand on his sleeve and whispers, “Pistol,” so hoarsely he barely hears himself. John is vibrating with anger but he reaches around Alex’s waist and this is it, this is how they die, one bullet and John might miss but then the guards will surely kill them for trying, and Alex wants to look at John’s face but he doesn’t dare, and then John is dragging him out of his seat and Alex doesn’t understand anything.

He struggles with John. He struggles with his footing, his bad leg giving way and pitching him almost to his knees. John pulls him out into the aisle and backwards, right in full view of the stage and _George sees them_ \- 

It’s bitterly cold, outside in the dark. Alexander huddles down into his new coat and heaves for breath. There seem to be two of him, one horror-sickened by the state of himself and one desperately watching the street for George and his guards. He knows they aren’t coming and he knows they will be here at any moment and force him back to his knees. He can taste skin. He remembers George’s blood running down his neck and he clings to the memory as tightly as his clothes, proof of where he is, but he can’t stop looking for the danger. He half-crawls into the carriage John flags down. He wants to apologise for his weakness. His mouth won’t form the words.

They reach Lafayette’s inn as fast as dreaming. Alexander has a giggle trapped in his chest. Back towards the palace. Going back. He sits silent on the padded bench until John and a stranger in a French uniform swing the door wide and beckon him out. Received into their arms like his soul by the angels. He knows how to walk if only they’d give him a minute to think about it.

The inn is crowded and hot with noise. Alexander goes where he is led, blind through the crowds to a place beside the chimney, with half the French army between him and the door. John is standing behind him, his hands tight on Alexander’s shoulders, pushing him down into the chair. Alexander keeps shaking, knows it’s ridiculous, can’t stop himself.

After half an eternity he looks up to Lafayette’s face, towering above him, and John is still holding him down in the chair. Something inside him screams in terror, until Lafayette drops to one knee to be at eye level.

“My friend, what happened?”

Alexander pushes his mind into parsing the French, and then stringing together a sentence of his own. “Nothing happened. It was nothing.”

“ Bull _ shit _ ,” John says. He drops into a chair next to Alexander, apparently satisfied he isn’t going to run away now. “That’s the first word he’s said since he told me to shoot an actor.”

“Understandable,” Lafayette says gravely. “I hear that the plays in London are _very_ badly performed. I must urge you only to murder those actors whose bodies you can hide. Sooner will be much better than later. We can dress them as soldiers and say they died in the fighting. Not so satisfying as a public hanging but very much quieter. Yes?”

Alexander hears himself laughing and decides he doesn’t mind.

 

The days roll on, impossible. Alexander and John lock up the last months in a chest and do not speak of them; they talk instead about America, their friends from the war, and the French strategy to pacify the Empire. Alexander buys a dozen books in English and French and tries to read them by candlelight, while John sleeps with his feet in Alexander’s lap. He spends almost an hour looking at pens and inks and paper, while his shoulders creep up around his ears and his breathing races, for no reason he can explain, but he refuses to leave the shop until he has the tools of his trade again. John eats himself ill on candied oranges, and Alexander gets the runs for two days, and both of them sleep more than they like.

After a week most of Lafayette’s troops are sent home, the brief invasion over. The British Parliament has signed the articles of surrender. Lord North is toasted across the city as the Traitor in Chief. Alexander drinks with the rest. But North, somehow, is still in Parliament, and Parliament is still in session. The back is broken and the corpse still lingers on. Alexander wakes up some days not knowing which language he should be speaking. His heeled boots come, and help with the leg - he thinks exercise is helping with that too, though most days it hurts enough to bring tears to his eyes, if he has to walk far - but even so he buys himself a cane and amuses himself trying to learn to spin it like a juggler.

Word spreads about the American prisoners still living in London. There were rumours, apparently, that they had died in the fighting, but those are soon corrected when someone recognises Alexander’s limp as how the King’s pet was damaged. All of London seems to have known about George’s favourite rebels, locked up in a tower with him. Some stories have them as hostages for the good behaviour of the colonies, and Alexander chokes into his beer as a red-faced law student explains to him the precedent for it, and how the palace prisoners - whoever they were - must have had vital blood ties to the most important figures of the rebellion, and so were probably Washington’s sons. Other stories run closer to the bone, salacious whispers of how the King used to keep noblemen as favourites, before he went to America and found new ones. John breaks a man’s cheek over one of those retellings. Alexander burns with hatred for anyone who ever saw his face in that place.

Worse, there can be no forgetting. History will remember them. Lafayette explains it, as gently as he can, when they have eaten their breakfast and Alexander is wondering who he might have left to write letters to. 

“I told you that there would be some negotiation, over His Majesty’s assumption of the crown here.”

“You told us, yes. But the surrender has already been signed; is there more?”

“The surrender was not absolute. There were conditions. The British still have appearances to maintain. To do things within their laws, so they insist.”

John has been straddling the bench trying to build a pyramid out of crusts, but now he turns to face Lafayette properly. “You sound like you’re warning us.”

“I am.” Lafayette leans on the table, his elbows splayed. “There is going to be a trial.”

“And what are we accused of?” John’s voice is hot with anger, only barely controlled.

“No, no, not you. You are not accused of anything. You are only witnesses. The trial is of George the Third of Hanover.”

Alexander’s heart thumps at the name, but his voice is steady. “They are trying him - I don’t know the word in French - after his death? While he is dead?”

Lafayette shrugs, like a collection of sticks poking at the shoulders of his coat. “Apparently they do that here. And they have precedent for trying their kings for treason, and then choosing a new one when they grow tired of being a republic. The first Hanoverian was invited by Parliament, and before him someone else - They change their rulers like their hats. But so there is a way to make it seem proper by their laws, if they convict the dead king and write to Louis to invite him in.”

Alexander leans against John’s shoulder. “You said they wanted us for witnesses.”

Lafayette nods. His mouth is pinched into an unhappy line. John puts an arm protectively around Alexander’s shoulders.

“Witnesses to everything? In how much detail? Laf, you can’t ask him to recite it all. I won’t let you.”

He raises his hands placatingly. “No, no, not all. They do not wish to enter everything on the trial records. Not - precisely. And your word would not be counted for much, since you are both traitors already, and commoners too.”

Commoners - Alexander sits up straight again at once. “My father is a Scottish gentleman -”

“And you do not have his estates,” Lafayette interrupts, “and are a traitor to the Crown besides, by act of revolution.”

Alexander closes his mouth, conceding the point.

“So, you will not be the primary witnesses. They will have their own for that - the ministers of state and so forth, to testify that George was not fit to rule. And the higher servants in the palace, too, for his personal habits. You will only be brought in at the end, for the other witnesses to identify you, and asked to confirm their stories. It will be simple. They will not ask you to explain.”

“I don’t want to do it,” John says. His skin has grown sallow from the months below deck, but even so he is pale beneath the shadows of his freckles. Lafayette looks at him and nods slowly.

“I will have to account for it, if I let you leave. I will, if you ask me to. But it will make it difficult to bring you home to France.”

Alexander swallows. His lips feel numb. Justice is a sour weight in his belly, as sickening as John’s orange peels. He always was better at yielding to his duty. “I’ll answer their questions.”

 


	15. Chapter 15

The trial is narrated every day in the morning newspapers.

Alexander buys them all, limping down the street with his cane and a growing bundle of cheap paper folded under his arm, until he has six or seven to work through; then he lets John usher him into a coffee shop and fuss over him like a broody hen, fetching him sweet pastries and glowering at anyone who looks at him too closely. They spread the papers out over the table, with their coffee cups to weigh them down, and piece together the news. Lord This-and-such asked very many questions about strategy in the Caribbean; Sir Somebody testified solemnly about his Majesty’s great friendship with his son, which might have been said to cross certain bounds of propriety; the Archbishop was questioned closely and would not give the simple assurance that he believed the King had been an entirely human man.

Alexander keeps his own records. He writes every afternoon, pinning his sanity to the page with good black ink. The jigsaw puzzle of the morning becomes unified under his pen and he plans for the book he will write when this is over, the history of how America rose up and was conquered again, the hubris of monarchy overthrowing itself. The timelines are the most interesting thing; what the British government was occupied with at home while the revolution was gathering. For one side he has the trial records and the gossip he gleans from the coffee shop patrons, who have come to regard him as a pleasant curiosity. The American half has to come from Alexander’s own memory and what Laurens can fill in for him. It makes for slow going.

He writes at a narrow desk by the window, in the sitting-room of the elegant house Lafayette moved them into three days before the trial began. The owner has left for the countryside with his wife and children and Lafayette’s offer to rent the place with all its furniture was some comfort for having driven him out of it with an army of muddy-booted French soldiers. Faithful Cloistre is gone back to France, keeping the troops organised on their way home, and in his place is a dark-haired Englishman called Farley, who makes Alexander feel perpetually untidy. The place has a generous garden, which is a mercy to John. He spends half his life outside, watching Alexander through the window. Alexander thinks he would sleep out there if he could. The feel of a roof over his head seems to offend him. He drives himself too hard, running up every flight of stairs he sees and climbing each tree in the garden to find the best view, pretending the long captivity stole nothing from his muscles. Lafayette will have to recompense their landlord for the damaged branches.

Despite the rumours, shared around the coffee shops in deliciously horrified tones, the House of Lords has not brought the corpse in for trial. Alexander studies the sketches in the papers but they are all done from imagination, the glitter of the royal crown on its cushion, facing down the accusing witnesses. George himself is, absurdly, still in his palace, not yet buried, weeks after his death. He has been put into a coffin lined with lead but Alexander always imagines him laid out in bloody wreckage on his embroidered coverlet, staring at the canopy of his bed, bloated with decay. They will not bury him while he is still King. Alexander sees him in his dreams.

The weather turns wet, and Alexander trudges back to the house with Laurens carrying his bundle of newspapers and stepping a little too fast for him. His hip aches badly, and the scar in his calf pulls tight every time he tries to lengthen his stride. John shakes his head violently when they reach shelter, scattering drops of rainwater across the expensive wallpaper.

“Dreadful things, the winters in London.” The stranger’s voice is quick and precise, every word clicking neatly into place. Alexander looks around to see a slender man as tall as Lafayette, with a halo of curly hair framing his handsome face. “Mr Laurens, it’s good to see you.”

John’s mouth is hanging open. “I thought you were in France.”

“I was.” John reaches out his hand and the stranger shakes it enthusiastically, clapping him on the arm. “I came to see history in the making. Can you blame me? Britain on its knees at last? And you must be Mr Hamilton.”

Alexander takes the proffered hand and shakes it. “You have the advantage of me, sir.”

“Oh, my deepest apologies,” the stranger says, serenely free of embarrassment, “Thomas Jefferson.”

“I’m honoured, Mr Jefferson, I memorised your Declaration -”

“Did you,” Jefferson says, looking pleased. “But you shouldn’t undervalue yourself, Mr Hamilton. You’re the man who brought down a throne.”

Alexander looks away, trying to smile away the discomfort. “I didn’t. That was Lafayette.”

“And why do you think he came, if not for love of you? Sorry, John, but we thought you were dead.”

John shrugs. His shoulder bumps against Alexander’s. “Half right.”

“It’s no small feat, to have survived him. I expect you know by now that not all his favourites did.”

“I’ve heard that.” Alexander looks back into Jefferson’s smiling face. “I prefer not to discuss it.”

“Of course, of course. And I am keeping you standing in your wet things - you’ll want to change. I’ll have the maid bring us some tea.”

“Are you staying with us, Thomas?”

Jefferson beams. It’s easy to like someone who smiles that way at John. “I am. The Marquis was kind enough to invite me. Now go and tip the water from your shoes, dear fellow, and we will argue about the new world in comfort.”

 

Life is undeniably more interesting with Jefferson to keep them company. He argues with Laurens just as promised, their voices raised and both pairs of hands flashing through the air between them, spinning out their disagreements. Alexander finds his tongue is tied for the first half hour; then all at once it loosens and he makes Jefferson laugh in delight with a clever phrase on John’s side. The two of them argue every day, divided over every subject in the world except the Revolution and good French wine, and Alexander takes great delight in changing sides at random whenever he lacks an opinion of his own. His opinions however are becoming very clear, with such good examples of disagreement to learn from. He spends more time and Lafayette’s gold in the bookshops.

There are laws against trading on Sundays, but somehow they do not seem to apply to either newspapers or food sellers, and so Alexander spends a very pleasant morning not at his desk but in a nook beside the kitchen fire, drinking the sweet tea the cook prefers and reading through the gossip columns. The new shape of the government is being hashed out in the crowded inches of the cheap papers, as the lesser gentry and ministers’ sons jostle for the positions their betters are fated to lose. Alexander is certain he could match any of them for skill, if he could only get into the Parliament. If there will be any Parliament at all, after the French have finished.

It is the fashion in England to eat well on Sundays after church, and not to take visitors until afternoon. Of the little band of revolutionaries in this particular town-house, only French Lafayette is a churchgoing man, and so the house is busy this morning when a knock comes at the front door.

John clatters down the stairs and sticks his head into the kitchen. “Alexander? Are we expecting someone?”

“I am not,” Alexander answers, folding up his papers and levering himself out of his makeshift seat. “Is it someone to see Jefferson?”

The front door opening sends a draft right down the kitchen stairs, where John is still holding the door. The cook says nothing, but she bangs her knife down rather sharply, and Alexander hustles his friend back into the hallway before their dinner can be ruined by annoyance. Unfamiliar voices echo from the entrance hall - women’s voices, and Jefferson’s smiling tones in response. Alexander leans heavily on his stick as he climbs.

He emerges a little flushed from exercise into the main house, and hastily sets his newspapers on the card table. He considers leaving the cane behind too, but he is still not very steady without it, and he would rather not fall down in front of the ladies, even if John would certainly catch him. So he taps his way across the marble in his odd three-legged rhythm and follows the sound of voices into the sitting room.

There is a lady of waiting, with her hair elegantly braided and her back to the door. She turns at his entrance, silk skirts rustling, and holds out her hand without waiting for introduction. Alexander takes it, a little stunned by the lady’s dark eyes.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he says. “I’m honoured by your visit - although I’m sure I would have remembered, if we had met before.”

The lady does not dimple in girlish smiles. She quirks one shapely eyebrow and says “Angelica Church. I’ve heard of your adventures, Mr Hamilton. My father is General Schuyler.”

“Oh, the famous elopement!” Alexander says, playing at shock. Mrs Church’s eyebrow climbs a little higher, and she reclaims her hand with a gentle tug. John is reaching out for his turn when she says “And you must be Mr Laurens. I’ve heard so much about you. Forgive us for coming without an invitation, but we simply couldn’t wait any longer. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

The woman who steps forward is pretty, in an ordinary sort of way, and so unassuming that Alexander did not see her at first. There is a child on her hip, still a chubby baby, not two years old. She has her fingers in her mouth, curly hair, and huge brown-gold eyes.

John, beside him, takes a deep breath. “Hello, Martha.”

“Hello, John.”

Alexander’s stomach clenches. He can’t look away from that baby, with her long eyelashes and freckles on her cheeks. “Laurens? Who’s this?”

“This is Martha.” He swallows loudly, his face set. “My wife.”


	16. Chapter 16

“A pleasure to meet you, Mrs Laurens.” Alexander steps forward, the movement made abrupt and awkward by his wound. He brushes the curls away from the baby’s forehead. “And who’s this?”

“Frances,” Martha says softly. “My - Our daughter.”

Alexander’s hand trembles. He glances back at John, a quick hunted look before he can stop himself.

“I see my husband did not mention her,” Martha says.

“Have you been well?” John interrupts. “Both of you?” His face is turning red. Alexander should give way, say nothing, not raise his voice.

He says, “No, madam, he did not. Nor your lovely self. I can only imagine he missed you too much to say anything.”

Angelica makes a wincing noise, like breath indrawn through her teeth. Jefferson shakes his head. Alexander does not care about either of them; only John, whose curls are loose around his head, the same brown hair as his little daughter.

“Alexander -”

“Yes, John? Or was there some other reason you didn’t tell me about your _wife_?”

“There was a war!”

“Yes, of course. And now that it’s over you have a great deal of catching up to do. Forgive me for interrupting your reunion.”

Alexander pushes through the doorway, wrenching his arm away when John tries to catch him. Someone is speaking behind him but the blood pounds in his ears, drowning them out. He fights his leg all the way up the stairs. The house seems suddenly airless, a prison, but pride won’t let him turn around. He stands at the library window instead, staring out into the garden, the sunlight slanting bright between the naked trees.

The door shuts quietly behind him.

“You should be with Martha,” Alexander says bitterly.

“I would like that, but she was not well enough to come to England.” Jefferson is not mocking. Alexander could not bear it if he were. He stands beside Alexander with one hand on the curtain, holding it back, as if the view was all that interested him. “My own wife. Another Martha. She is in Monticello with our children - I have not met the youngest. I wish to God I had.”

“He didn’t tell me.”

“A man should not deny his children.”

“But he didn’t tell me he was _married_.” Alexander’s breath steams the window glass. “I wouldn’t have. If I’d known. If I’d known when we met -”

“You wouldn’t have loved him?”

Alexander looks away from Jefferson’s steady gaze.

“Faithfulness in marriage is between a man and his wife,” Jefferson says after a moment. “Between a man and a man we are ruled by a different law. You did not do Martha any harm.”

“Between a man and a man,” Alexander repeats. “Or a man and a king.”

“What did he do to you?”

Anger aches in his chest. “Lied to me. Betrayed me.”

“Not him.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“John won’t tell me, either. But Lafayette told me how he found you. I’d assumed they kept you together, but that isn’t true, is it?”

“They kept us apart.” Alexander’s throat closes up, scraping his voice down to a whisper. “I saw him in... scraps of moments... when he was changing us over. There were... a half dozen times, maybe. When we were in the same room. All those months, I only spoke to him twice. And when I was... disobedient, they hurt John, and when John was...” He swallows, unable to speak the words, to think about what lies behind them. Jefferson speaks softly, matching him.

“You are not John’s scapegoat. You need not carry his sins for him. You did not leave Martha in England. You had no duty to her.”

“I just don’t understand why he wouldn’t _tell_ me,” Alexander bursts out. “I gave up everything for him, I did _everything_ I was asked, and it wasn’t enough for him? Why not just tell me?”

Jefferson lets out a deep breath, like a man who is making a decision. He leans in very close and Alexander’s hand comes up between them, automatically, to touch his chest. “I can give you something you need not share with him,” he says.

His shirt is fine white linen. The heat of his body burns through, searing under Alexander’s palm. His mouth is very red and very near.

Alexander tips his head back to look at him. He can feel his own heart thumping fast. _Warm_ , his mind supplies, and _solid_ , and then _new_ , and Alexander goes up on his toes to kiss him.

Jefferson puts his hands on Alexander’s waist and leans down to answer his sudden rush of courage. Alexander tangles his fingers into Jefferson’s halo of curls and pulls him closer. He grips too tight and Jefferson laughs into his mouth.

They stumble together into one of the library armchairs, almost big enough for two. Alexander straddles Jefferson’s lap with his knees pressed tight against the arms of the chair, like being held. Jefferson _underneath_ him makes him wild with hunger. The hand in his breeches is big and soft-skinned and for a moment the world tilts, until Alexander pulls away to look at Jefferson's face and the feeling sharpens down into desire.

“I’m not sucking you off,” he says firmly, and gets another laugh out of him.

“Then I shan’t ask.” He keeps touching, while Alexander rocks into his hand and hears his breathing go harsh, trying to keep quiet. “Good lord, Hamilton, the faces you make. Look like that at the French ladies and you may take your pick.”

Alexander gasps “Stop talking,” and kisses him again. He revels in the power of making Jefferson tip his head back, his hands in Jefferson’s hair. Time loses its sharp edges for a while. Alexander notices odd things, the tightening of his coat across his shoulders as he leans, the leather chair sliding against his stockings, and revels in them. He nips under Jefferson's ear and the sharp gasp in return almost frightens him, so he goes back to kissing. Jefferson's hand is so tight around him, so certain, the hand that wrote the Declaration of Independence. There's a giggle growing inside him at that thought, one he buries to enjoy later.

Jefferson pats at his coat, over his breast pocket. “Handkerchief?” He waits for Alexander’s nod before he goes fishing for it, tucks it into Alexander’s breeches, cotton and skin and Jefferson’s mouth under his and Alexander flies out of his body and chokes on a cry he didn’t feel coming. Jefferson strokes the hair out of Alexander's face and grins. He looks terribly pleased with himself.

Alexander feels abruptly sick. He struggles to his feet, braced awkwardly on the arms of the chair, trying to keep his balance. Jefferson stretches, released from Alexander’s weight. His cock presses against his clothes. There is a buzzing in Alexander’s skull, louder even than his heartbeat. He can't think.

“I have to go,” Alexander says, and flees for his room.

He is still there when John comes up half an hour later, after the echo of voices in the hallway that means the ladies have taken themselves away. John wrinkles his nose. “Get up.”

Alexander drops his head back against the wall. The floor is hard beneath him, solid, safe. It’s easier to look at the ceiling than John’s golden eyes. “Fuck off.”

“Get up,” John says again. His voice has gone high and scared. Alexander knows he ought to care but it falls into the empty space in his chest and doesn’t touch him.

“Go away,” he says. “Just go away. Go back to your wife.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you on the floor.”

“So fuck off then.”

John makes a strangled noise. “I married her because of Frances. I didn’t want the baby to be a bastard. You ought to understand that.”

“That’s not the point,” Alex says dully. “When did you marry her?”

“Just before I came back to America. I left her money.”

“That’s not _enough_. Fucking rich boys, you think you can buy your way out of everything. So when I met you, you’d already - I was your honeymoon.”

“You were -” John takes a deep, heaving breath. “I was trying to be normal. I was trying to - And then she was pregnant. So I had to. But the revolution. You know it’s more important than any of us. Laf’s married! He left Adrienne in France, how is this any different?”

Alexander knocks his head against the wall again. “I knew about Adrienne. I didn’t know about Martha. I thought I mattered to you, Jack. I thought you felt - And all the time, you were married to her.”

“I didn’t marry her for love,” John says loudly. His fists are clenched at his sides. “I didn’t suck George’s cock for _her_.”

Bitterness coats his tongue. “You didn’t suck it for me, either.”

“You think I _liked it?_ ”

“You _bit_ him!” Alexander hears himself shouting and goes dizzy with fear but now he’s started he can’t stop, flinging furious words at the man looming over him. “You knew what he was! There was a hole in my leg and _you bit him_ and you made me choke him and we nearly _died_ and they chained me to his _bed_ and you _never took your turn_ -”

Hands close in his lapels and drag him up. Alex struggles to follow, through the stabbing pain in his leg and the instinct heavy as lead that binds him to the floor, but he can’t disobey. His back thuds against the wall.

“Shut up,” John spits. “Shut your fucking mouth. I would have killed him if not for you. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Alex clutches at his wrists. “Let me go.”

He clings on while John shoves him against the wall, half choking on his shirt collar. He sees red rims around John’s eyes, and the wasted narrowness of his shoulders. John’s chest is heaving.

“We should have died,” John says. “We should have died.”

The door slams shut behind him. Alex drops to his knees and retches, the carpet rough under his hands. Tears burn his throat like seawater.


	17. Chapter 17

Lafayette has been working on John. Alexander has heard them arguing, mostly at the tops of their voices, and knows at least one of those fights has descended into throwing punches. John used to scowl at sweet reasonableness, but Alexander doesn’t remember him turning violent, or running away when he couldn't provoke a reaction. He watches John in the garden, still running his endless laps around the lawn, and his leg twinges in frustrated restlessness.

John finally agrees to testify two days before they’re summoned to Parliament.

Alexander can’t sleep, the night before. He tries, but John is pacing back and forth in their bedroom - they have their own rooms, for propriety’s sake, but they never sleep apart, still - and Alexander watches the fire coming and going past John’s legs and his heart pounds. He can’t close his eyes.

He dozes a little, once John through exhaustion has finally lain down to stare at the ceiling until his eyes drift closed. The servants wake Alexander in the morning still sitting up on his bed, wrapped in his blankets with his knees drawn up to his chest. He drinks strong coffee that does nothing to soothe his churning stomach and eats bread and bacon, too much of it, but the idea of skipping breakfast spikes terror in the back of his skull.

The stern blocky front of Westminster Palace is pierced by round arches. Alexander sees them roll past the carriage window like the steps of a scaffold. They are taken into a stuffy antechamber to stare at a heavy door, guarded by over-decorated soldiers gone red-faced in the fire’s warmth.

John’s turn comes first. He answers the summoning steward like a man in a dream, white and staring, his feet scuffing against the stone floor. The door shuts behind him. Alexander hates it, hates the surge of panic that tells him John is in danger, the helpless wrench like half his soul torn away. He can’t pace. It makes his leg hurt too much. He leans on the ornate fireplace instead, letting it bake one side of him, his cane held tight as a weapon in his left hand. He won’t ask for a chair. He won’t sit on the floor. The guards settle into their places and hardly look at him.

It must be hours before the door opens again. Years. John stumbles out with red blotches high on his cheeks. He’s trembling. “I’m going out,” he says, before Alexander can speak. “I’m going - I’ll send someone to meet you when they’re done. I’m going outside.”

The daylight cuts through the tiny room like a frozen knife and then the door closes behind him and Alexander is alone.

Alone, except for the impassive guards. He squares his shoulders and flexes his foot in its heeled boot.

The door to the parliament chamber opens.

There are guards inside, too. Alexander stands between them, keeping his back straight though he feels himself sweating. The Lords look back at him in their powdered wigs. Opposite Alexander, raised on a pedestal, the crown glitters.

Alexander can’t breathe.

“Please state your name for the record,” one of the Lords says, in a dry creaking voice like leather in need of oiling.

Alexander swallows painfully. “Alexander Hamilton.”

“And your profession?”

He stares for a too-long moment, trying to dredge up an answer. “I - I am in the law, sir, but of late I have been a soldier.”

The muttering reminds him that “sir” is not the right term. My lord. _My lord,_ Alexander, you were told this before. He looks down at his toes.

“We understand that you were captured by our troops during the recent unrest in the American colonies. Is this correct?”

“Yes, my lord. At the very end, in the battle where General Washington was taken and hanged.”

“And you were not then paroled?”

“No, my lord, I was brought to the British flagship and then to England.”

The noble questioning him looks like his shirt is too tight. He keeps bobbing his chin against his high collar. This must be Lord Carlton, who all the newspapers draw as a toad, because he croaks. “Aboard the ship, did you ever meet with His Majesty?”

Alexander stares at the crown. “I was kept in his cabin, my lord. Except - except when I was brought to the brig and my - companion - my fellow prisoner, was taken to the cabin instead.”

The Lords mutter over his head. Alexander despises himself for how his voice is shaking.

“And during your time in His Majesty’s cabin,” Lord Carlton goes on, “did he ever behave towards you in a manner unbecoming of a British gentleman and a King?”

Alexander manages a jerky nod.

“Aloud, if you please, Mr Hamilton.” There is sympathy in the man’s tone, under the steel. Alexander would like to plunge a knife in his chest. His face feels numb.

“Yes, my lord. He did so often.”

The Lord nods. His face beneath his grey wig is very serious. “Mr Hamilton, we have heard from other witnesses that you were brought to London upon His Majesty’s return to England, that you were held within the Palace of St James, and the conditions of that confinement. I must ask you, in your private hours with His Majesty, did this unseemly behaviour continue?”

The noise in Alexander’s head almost swallows his voice. “Yes, my lord.”

“Did he at any time behave towards you in a manner suggestive of... unclean religion?”

“He gave me bread and wine,” Alexander whispers. “After - after he - when he was -”

“For God’s sake, give the man a drink,” someone says loudly. Alexander trembles where he stands. The glass pushed into his hand shakes as he drinks.

“He gave me bread and wine,” he starts again, staring at the liquid in his glass, heavy sweetness, red as blood. “After he had taken his pleasure. On the first night I slept in his bed in the palace. And other times. He liked - He had me drink from his cup.”

The Lords are still muttering. Lord Carlton tries to stare them into silence, and fails. He goes on anyway.

“Mr Hamilton, concerning the less spiritual actions of His Majesty, were there any other gentleman in England who treated you in this manner?”

Alexander’s hands are still shaking, but his voice is steady. “Yes, my lord.”

“Do you know who those gentlemen were?”

“Only one name, sir. The man who was most at fault. Yes. Geor- The King addressed him as Cavendish.”

An unhappy sigh runs through the room. Alexander feels he has just confirmed something that does not surprise anyone.

“Very well,” Lord Carlton says heavily. “Gentleman, are we satisfied with the witness’s account of his majesty’s personal habits?”

Alexander makes himself take another drink while the lords deliberate. He wishes it was less mellow, to burn the lump out of his throat.

At last Lord Carlton turns back to him. “Mr Hamilton, we appreciate your cooperation so far. By your own confession you were captured in the decisive battle against Mr Washington’s troops, where you fought on the side of the rebels. Did you ever meet Mr Washington?”

Alexander stares for a moment with his mouth open. Why on Earth are they asking about _that_?

“Mr Hamilton?”

He shakes his head sharply, gathering his wits. “Yes, my lord, I was General Washington’s aide.”

“So you were high up in the rebel forces.”

“I was a colonel, sir. I did not have a command. I managed the General’s correspondence.”

Lord Carlton folds his hands over his stomach. “It’s not your particular rank I’m asking about, Mr Hamilton. Were you personally committed to the cause?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you have such connexions as might be of use in continuing the war?”

“I - believe so, my lord, although I expect many of them are dead.”

“Were you at that time acquainted with the Marquis de la Fayette?

“I was, my lord. He was part of the General’s circle of close advisers. We were friends.”

Lord Carlton glances significantly at one of his fellow gentlemen. “Mr Hamilton, during your time in British custody, were you in contact with the Marquis?”

Alexander finally sees where this is going, and curses himself for idiocy. “No, my lord.”

“Or with any French person?”

“No, my lord. I had no contact with anyone outside of the flagship and then the palace. I won’t deny that - if I had had a way to communicate with the Marquis - I would have used it, but I did not have such a way.”

Lord Carlton stares at him intently. “You made no attempt to correspond with the French?”

“I did not.” Alexander is going light-headed. They’re going to arrest him - they’re going to throw him in another British cell - oh, God -

“Mr Hamilton, when did you become aware of the French invasion?”

“When the King did,” Alexander says faintly. “I was - I was in the room, when he was told. I didn’t know before.”

“And when the palace was stormed, where were you then?”

“With his Majesty.” Alexander can see doubt on every face. “I was with George, I was in his arms, he was holding me against his chest and Lafayette came in the door and shot him and I thought I was dead, I thought it was me but he bled on me and it was him. I didn’t kill him I swear I didn’t kill him it was Lafayette, please, please I didn’t do it I swear -”

Strong arms catch Alexander around the chest before he can hit the floor. He hears Lord Carlton as if from a great distance, saying, “We’ll record the short form of that answer, please, Dawson,” but he can’t look up from the grey flagstones. Alexander clings to the steward who caught him and tries to breathe.

“Mr Hamilton,” someone says. “Mr Hamilton.”

Alexander drags his eyes up to look. It’s one of the younger lords, the same one who called for him to be given a drink, sympathy writ large on his face.

“It’s alright, lad. You’re not under arrest. You’re quite safe here, it’s all over. We’re only trying to find out what happened.”

“It wasn’t me,” Alexander whispers.

“I believe you.” The young man chews his lip. “Look - do you need anything? It shouldn’t be much longer. A drink? A chair?”

Alexander straightens up, forcing his body out of the instinctive attempt to kneel, if only to make the steward move his hands away. He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “Please just let me go?”

“Soon, young fellow. We’ll be done with you soon.”

“Mr Hamilton,” Lord Carlton says loudly, and Alexander’s reassuring friend steps away. “Are you ready to resume?”

Alexander’s voice shakes. “Yes, my lord.”

“We have heard that during your imprisonment within St James’s Palace you were present at numerous meetings between his Majesty and the ministers of state. During those meetings, did you form any suspicion that any member of the government was divided in their loyalties?”

Alexander tries to think.

“No, my lord,” he says at last, remembering how they had looked at him with pity, and never tried to break him loose. “I did not imagine any of them were working with the French.”


	18. Chapter 18

After the trial, there is a blankness.

Alexander remembers it piecemeal, in fragments cast loose from time. The glitter of the crown upon its pedestal. The murmur of voices, following him, and catching him again in Lafayette's town house. A fire burning low, warming the rug on which he sat. The slap of cold air outside Parliament. He cannot fit the pieces back together.

He awakens on Sunday morning with a feeling like the passing of a storm. He looks at the sculpted plaster of the ceiling and breathes, waiting.

Nothing happens

Alexander gets out of bed. The rug is rough beneath his bare feet, his shirt snags painfully in his hair. He feels like a snake, skin newly shed, without defences against the world. John is sprawled in the armchair by the burnt-out fire, his snoring heavy with drink. It can't be warm, but Alexander knows better than to wake him up by putting a blanket over him. John's slept in much worse places on campaign; he'll be fine.

The thin winter sun is up and shining through the windows of the sitting room. Lafayette is standing by the broad window, looking out at the frost on every leaf, drinking coffee.

“There's more in the pot,” he says, glancing around. “But it's burnt.”

“I've drunk it muddy before,” Alexander says, and helps himself to a cup. His hips ache, and the knee of his bad leg. The lawn outside the window is striped with long shadows.

“You look well this morning,” Lafayette says, a question in his voice.

Alexander sips his coffee rather than acknowledge it. “Oh, this really is burnt. Why are we drinking it?”

“We are fortifying ourselves for a visit from the ladies.” Lafayette shakes his head. “Three women and of them all the baby is the best company.”

“You don't like Angelica?”

“I like her very much, but she will spend all morning sparring with Jefferson and he will be looking down her dress. John will glare at Martha and Martha will be very brave about it, and I shall give Frances candied chestnuts and ruin her appetite for dinner.”

“You'll make her sick.” Alexander swallows another mouthful of coffee and grimaces at his cup. “What are we doing here, Laf? I mean, where are we going? The Revolution failed. Where does that leave us?”

“Did it fail?”

“What?”

Lafayette turns to face him. “We had a set-back, I would say. The British did win the first war. But the flame is still there, Alexander, and the British have lost. There is no empire coming to help them now. The ships, the men, what they have is all they have. If America rose up-”

“A second revolution?”

“Why not? We still believe in liberty, don't we? What better memorial to our dead than the free America they fought for?”

Alexander blows out his cheeks. “There's only four of us.”

“So, we need a plan. Help me invent one. Jefferson makes a fine figurehead, you and John are famous heroes and I – well, I am in favour at court just now, after the battle of St James's. Guns and ships are not so hard to find. Help me, Hamilton. There is still hope.”

“Alright,” Alexander says. “Alright.”

He drinks his bitter coffee and thinks about supply lines.

 

In years afterwards, he will hardly remember that Christmas. They ate a good dinner, he knows, and drank mulled wine and dozed in the sitting room, and John built a snowman and pelted it with stones until its head fell off and his knees buckled with laughter, and then put his icy hands on Alexander's back. But in memory, the dim shapes of Christmas are half buried under the weight of the St Stephen's Day Pronouncement.

It is not exactly a legal judgement and not exactly a law. It is read, in grave solemnity, in Parliament Square, and from the walls of the Tower, and before the gates of each of the palaces. Copies are printed for the doors of every church in London.

The London printers are just as quick to copy the Pronouncement as to set type for the morning papers. Two hours after its first reading, on a ice-slicked holiday when London is still sleeping off its goose, Alexander has the text in his hands.

He spreads it out on a card table and gnaws his thumbnail.

“Read it aloud,” Jefferson suggests.

Alexander shakes his head. “It sounds like Lord Carlton croaking. Here, you try to make sense of it.”

He braces himself on the polished mantelpiece as Jefferson mutters under his breath. The coals glow gently in the hearth.

“It's not quite unconditional,” Jefferson says at last.

“Is it good enough?”

“Enough for what? The French? I dare say they'll accept it. The surrender was already signed. This is just – It invites Louis to take the throne of Great Britain and all its dependencies, with all the rights and responsibilities pertaining thereunto, by right of his descendance from the ancient English kings and with the full faith and confidence of Parliament, which hereby surrenders its sovereignty to the Crown. Nothing about the Test Act at all, I wonder how they squared that logic?”

“Test Act? Oh, the French are Catholics.”

“Mm. And it disinherits the whole Hanoverian line -”

Jefferson falls silent.

“What?”

“There's a lot about King George's crimes.” he says carefully. “They don't name you, but they mean what he was doing in the palaces. 'Commoners and nobles of all degrees', and 'conduct that must offend all Christian men'. Hamilton, it talks about 'unclean religion and perversion of the Holy Sacrament' in the same breath as Hanoverian blood. They might as well call him a demon from Hell.”

Alexander laughs bitterly. “Don't ask me, Jefferson. You've heard the same rumours I have.”

“But you must know more than -”

“Ask a priest. If he was a Devil he's not the only Lord to be one.”

Jefferson hums uncertainly. He doesn't ask again.

 

Louis wastes no time coming to London for his coronation. He takes over Carlton House, in a calculated insult to the last George of Hanover, no longer Crown Prince and confined in luxurious isolation at Windsor. The coronation is rushed, even with the weeks of warning, and the Londoners mutter about it, offended that their government has let them down in front of the still-hated French.

The ceremony itself is far too exclusive for lowly American visitors, though Lafayette waits three hours in a carriage to pay his respects after the crown has been set on the royal head. But the next day, there are balls and parties in every grand house, and Alexander finds himself mingling with nobles of both countries, wishing his French accent were more elegant.

Alexander is content to spend this evening mainly being overlooked, or introduced as a friend of Mr Jefferson or the Marquis, and otherwise left to gorge himself on pastries. He shakes the hands of strangers and presents himself as the displaced American hero, the quite ordinary captured officer. He ignores the wine in his glass.

For a moment, he does not recognise the round-faced man who crosses the floor to speak to him, and then his breath turns ice in his chest.

“Mr Hamilton,” Lord North says. “They told me you would be here.”

Alexander hears his own voice as if from a great distance. “Good evening, my lord.” His leg throbs, sudden and sharp.

“It is Mr North, now.” He bows, raising his eyes only slowly to Alexander’s face. “I owe you a most humble apology.”

“An apology.”

“That I did not act sooner.”

Later, Alexander will wish that his hands had reached for a pistol, that he had said something very clever and harsh. But his hands only shake, and his chest hurts, and he mumbles some noise that doesn’t make a word.

North looks down at him, tall and solemn. “I invited the French, Mr Hamilton. I did not know your name, then, and could not have warned you if I did. His Majesty would have known something was amiss. In any case, you might have died in the fighting - It was a poor rescue. You deserved better.”

“Why did you do it?” Alexander's voice is harsh in his own ears. “You're a traitor? What did they give you?”

“Nothing, sir. I had my concerns, when the King's favourites were men of rank, who might have refused him. They at least shared his perversions. But you -” North looks away, gathering his composure. “It was too much. His son was no better. There is a sickness in that bloodline that grows worse with every year. I could no longer bear to see my country in his hands.”

“So you sold it.”

“I gave it away, sir, and with it I have lost my estates, my rank and my honour. Yet saved, I think, my soul.”

“Was it worth the price?”

North blinks slowly, his aristocratic face solemn with regret. “Mr Hamilton, I do no expect your forgiveness. I do not ask for your friendship. I only wish you to know that if you ever need any favour of me – anything at all – you have only to ask. Everything I have is at your disposal. If there is any favour-”

“Go away,” Alexander says. “Go away. Don't ever speak to me again. You're a fucking coward and a traitor. Go away.”

Lord North bows low, before he vanishes back into the crowd.

 

Alexander looks out over the manicured lawns of the grand house, his back against an ice-cold pillar. The marble is almost silent under his tapping fingernails. The lights of the windows flare out over the grass, squares of bright gold over the silvery frost. There is laughter sounding behind him, but it's brittle. This is not quite a celebration. There are too many British here for that. They laugh anyway, and toast the new King.

Laurens lands against the pillar next to him, his shoulder pressed close to Alexander's. Surprise makes Alexander's heart thud a moment, wakes all his muscles to tingling. Laurens groans.

“What?”

“They're all such _snobs_.”

“Jack, you're a snob.”

“I am not!”

Alexander looks at him sideways.

“I'm not. I'm friends with you, aren't I?”

“You fucker.” Alexander shoves him, bumping their elbows. “I should break your nose for that.”

“You're not going to, though.”

“I'm not.”

“You're going to suck me off instead.”

Alexander snaps upright. He stares at John a moment, his eyes wide. John looks as nervous as he is, his mouth slightly open, surprised at his own courage. He licks his lips. Alexander lifts his hand to touch John's cheek, the tied-back sleekness of his hair.

“Is that so, Mr Laurens?”

John's mouth curls up at the corner. “Yes, Mr Hamilton.” His voice shifts, away from the European vowels they're both picking up, into the refined accent his father spoke with, before the war. “Or you will be dismissed.”

Alexander grins, wolf-hungry. “As you say, Mr Laurens. Just as you say.”

 

They end the night in Lafayette's rented library, John leaning back against a bookshelf, his hands clutching at the polished wood, while Alexander on his knees makes him mutter curses to the shadowed ceiling, and digs his fingers into John's narrow thighs.

 

By the time the snowdrops come up in the garden, it is all over. Louis is King of France and Britain, the Empire is falling apart as each British garrison surrenders, or refuses to, and Lafayette has been released back to France. Alexander and John will go with him, though the thought of the boat across the Channel makes Alexander's heart pound, and take up lodgings in Paris. They will fan the American flame back into life. There will be another war. There will be a victory.

John leans on the doorframe, watching Alexander pack up his writing desk. Alexander settles his newest essay into the box, a polemic on the illegitimacy of the British regime in New York, written in his ever-improving French, before he looks up.

John looks uncomfortable.

“She refused, then?”

He nods. “She'll stay here. With Frances. I've promised to send her what I can, but – with Father gone, and the estate confiscated – I don't know if there'll be anything to send. But she won't come to Paris.”

“Lafayette will look after her,” Alexander says, trying to be encouraging. “And Angelica is as revolutionary as we are. She'll make sure Martha doesn't starve.”

“I promised her better than this when I married her.”

“You promised to love her when you married her. It's not the first time you've broken those vows.”

Laurens kicks his heel against the wall. “Shut up.”

“I have a plan for America,” Alexander says, into the silence. “I think – I think Frances won't ever inherit those estates. I think we need them for the war.”

“You've got an idea.”

“It's a mad, stupid, reckless idea that General Washington would never let us try.”

“I like it already.” Laurens finally comes into the room, and shuts the lid on Alexander's writing-desk, his fingertips brushing protectively over the essays it holds. “Let's go home, Alexander. Let's root the British out of every hole they've crawled into. Let's be remembered for something.”

Alexander grins. He tilts his head a little, just enough to press his lips to John's soft mouth. “Laurens, my dear, you say the loveliest things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you liked this, please find me @duckbunny on tumblr for sequel talk and general screaming. Thanks for sticking with me through this and I hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> (Alexander didn't.)


End file.
